In the Interim
by meaninglessmonotony
Summary: A series of segments detailing Joker's life and experience between Shepard's death and her revival at the hands of Cerberus. T for language. Please review with suggestions for further entries and general improvement. Implied Shoker. Will feature several familiar people. UPDATE! Final chapter!
1. Empty

He heard the door hiss shut behind him, a distant part of his brain longing for the old-fashioned swinging doors that slammed so satisfyingly. He kicked the sagging green chair half-heartedly, automatically adjusting for the surprising hardness of the furniture, calculating just the right amount of force to cause pain but not injury.

Pain was good. It filled the void.

He activated the holoscreen and picked up the half-empty glass that stood on the little clear side-table from…whenever he'd last been drinking. Taking a lukewarm swig, he gingerly settled into the chair, green eyes scanning the bright duragel screen without any real interest in or comprehension of the content. He grimaced at the taste, but welcomed the burning at the back of his throat. No Serrice Ice Brandy for Alliance Flight Lieutenant Jeff "Joker" Moreau. That fruity shit was for pansies and snobs. He tipped the glass back, letting the vile liquid empty itself down his throat. Ugh. Cheap batarian swill. Tasted like…antifreeze. And petroleum.

But that was the point, wasn't it? He gazed through the holonews—that al-Jilani woman, or whatever her name was, outlined an elcor conspiracy against human industry…something contrived. **_Yeah_**, he grimaced at the lingering taste of the alcohol, **_if you felt pain, it meant you were feeling something._**

He looked down at his lap blankly. He hadn't felt a thing since—_his baby shuddered, screaming in agony as she was ripped in half by the strange ship's particle-beam weapon. Around him, crewman screamed too, and the staccato impacts of their frenzied footfalls was lost in the greedy crackling of the flames that had sprung up everywhere. Gradually, the sounds of his fellows died away. They had run for the escape pods. They had left him._

_"Idiots," he grunted, his hands almost a blur as they flew across the holographic readouts, "I'll pull her through."_

_Inwardly, though, he knew the Normandy was lost—the multiple hull-breaches, fires, and general signs of destruction were definite indicators that he should get the hell out. Not to mention the fact that what was once one ship had recently become two—with neither half in remotely pilotable condition. But he was the pilot, he had seen the ship approaching, he had failed to move his baby fast enough to evade…whatever kind of weapon that was._

_He had failed, no matter what anyone else could say, and if he could fail so catastrophically how the hell could he call himself the "best pilot" in the galaxy? Stupid, arrogant pride had gotten him into this and he knew it wouldn't get him out._

_Still he desperately worked the unresponsive controls, pressed buttons that flickered alarmingly, unaware of the pleas which were drawn inexorably from his lips._

_"C'mon, baby, hold together."_

_They had left him. He was going to die._

_His fingers slipped and the Normandy moaned. Instantly, he was back in Alliance Flight Lieutenant mode, making delicate calibrations and adjustments while his mind grappled with the realization. As a pilot and, he thought bitterly, a cripple, the only way he should die would be if the ship went down or was boarded. He'd had so much confidence—merited and otherwise—in his abilities, that he'd never really thought about dying. Bubbles of panic crowded his throat—he wasn't even thirty—too young, too young, too young! The blackness of space caught his eye, its immeasurable vastness unnerving him as always. It was so empty—no one would miss him. His dad had died a few years ago, he hardly talked to his mom, and his caustic nature had earned him few friends._

_Shepard. She had tried…he shook his head angrily. Stupid fool, he hadn't been willing to let her bring his carefully constructed walls down. At least she'd be safe. Maybe…maybe this was for the best. He felt a sense of calm begin to filter through the panic, suddenly reminding him of Kaiden's last words._

_He renewed his futile assault on the Normandy's useless readouts, a dark corner of his mind now urging him to stop. Going down with the ship meant never having to face the blame, never having to be pitied or disappointing again. Still, his pride maintained the delusional hope that he could, in fact, save the ship. He had to._

_"C'mon, baby, hold together!" He begged, the words beating in his head like a mantra. _

_He began to feel light-headed, realized the oxygen levels must be approaching—he grabbed the emergency O__2 __mask from the cache beneath his seat, twisted his cap backwards, and strapped it on. Instantly, he felt better…well, all things considered. His heart hammered, fingers still flying over the glowing consoles._

_"Hold together."_

_He should have told her. At least—_

_"Joker!" A blast shook the cockpit and someone collided heavily with his right side. __**Commander.**_

_He pushed her away, dismayed. What was she doing here? She wasn't supposed to come back for a scrap like him._

_"I can save her!" He yelled, hoping she'd leave, go back to the escape pods._

_She spun him around to face her. The polarized mask was inscrutable, but he could imagine her serious brown eyes and the little frown of determination that was so distinctly Shepard._

_"The Normandy is lost, Joker, going down with her won't change that." He'd heard that steely calm before over the headset as Shepard diffused countless hostage crises and faced down militant pirates, but there was a discordant underlying note of desperation this time. It scared him._

_The ship rocked again and he realized just how close to death they were. She wasn't leaving._

_"Alright," he sighed, shaking his head, "Help me up."_

_She gripped his bicep hard—too hard, and he snapped impulsively. "Watch the arm!"_

_Wordlessly, she slung his arm across her shoulders and wrapped her own about his waist. Jeff swallowed the automatic resentment—she was the only one he'd take this from—and felt a grudging swell of gratitude. They moved as fast as his legs would allow, but, glancing back over his shoulder, he could see it wasn't fast enough._

_"It's coming back around!" He yelled to her, "We won't make it in time. Leave me, Commander."_

_"Like hell," she panted back, and he was taken aback by the uncharacteristic cursing, "I came all the way up here for you, Joker, I'll be damned if I lugged your heavy ass halfway to the pods for nothing."_

_He tried to pull away, "I'm not worth it, Shepard."_

_She drew him closer, refusing to look at him. "You are to me. Now shut up. We'll talk on the way planet-side."_

_"Commander…" For once he couldn't think of anything to say. The Normandy shuddered, tipped, and they moved faster until he could see the rows of escape pods, all but one already jettisoned. Her arm tightened—the closest to a hug he'd ever gotten from her. The pod door hissed open, and Shepard gently dumped him in one of the closest seats, her hand trailing on his shoulder as she turned to seal the pod._

_A tremendous explosion bucked what little was left of the gravitized Normandy—roiling balls of fire bloomed from the corridor, sparks cascaded from the partial ceilings, and Shepard was tossed like a ragdoll in a tornado, away from him and the escape pod._

_"Commander!" He sat up, tried to pull himself up and out after her. "Shepard!" She came up, one hand clutching her side, and he saw her gauging the distance between her and the pod. __**No, no, no, no, no, no! **__He managed to haul himself into a semblance of a standing position, cursing his frail legs and crooked spine._

_In an instant, he saw her shoulders slump slightly, his throat clenched on a final broken plea—"Shepard!"—as she threw herself at the remote release, jettisoning his pod. Through the thick glass, he saw the gravitational field give way, and Shepard was sucked into empty space with most of the loose debris and wreckage that had once been a ship, the best ship._

_He screamed her name, beating ineffectively against the viewport, watching helplessly as her writhing figure grew smaller and increasingly stiller, until she was just a limp black speck._

_"Shepard," he whispered, voice cracking. For the first time in years, he felt the burn of approaching tears._

"Shit!" He hurled the glass through the stupid holofeed, feeling a shadow of satisfaction at the crash it made when it shattered against the opposite wall. He didn't want to remember. It had been over a month ago, but it still haunted him. Not like he could ever forget it, what with the weekly news-features, the countless tributes and memorials to the woman he'd killed. He'd taken sick leave—all of the fifty standard days he'd had stockpiled—and it hadn't helped.

He looked around the shitty apartment, devoid of any personal items. Empty, blank, bare. The only thing to do in this piss-hole was to remember.

Jeff scratched at his beard, grown long past regulation specs. Screw it. He got up and trudged to the bathroom. He had to report to Anderson tomorrow.


	2. Grounded

"Grounded?" Joker echoed Anderson; his brain struggled to identify the implications of the word. Everything about this meeting was surreal—Anderson sat calmly at his desk while, through the large glass window, Jeff could see cleaning crews removing the last of Sovereign's wreckage. The Presidium's greenery was just starting to poke through the ashes of the attack's destruction and the blindingly white walls of the captain's new quarters were gleaming.

Across from him, the older man's face was weary, the premature lines had grown more pronounced in the time since Shepard's…Jeff supposed he'd been preoccupied with all of the political fallout from the whole Saren thing and joining the Council, but any pity he might have felt was overwhelmed by a gathering fury.

"Moreau—" He started, but Joker cut him off.

"What the hell do you mean, 'grounded'? I'm the best goddamned pilot the Alliance has!" Jeff stood up angrily, ignoring the pain in his shins at the sudden movement.

"Jeff, it's—"

"This is fucking bullshit—"

"That's enough, Lieutenant!" bellowed the captain, the authoritative iron in his voice seemingly strengthening him. Anderson rose, broad shoulders squared in perfect military form.

Joker set his jaw defiantly, folded his arms.

"Look, Joker, it's not my call," Anderson softened his harsh expression, "I know how good you are, but these orders come from the very top."

"It's hard on you too, huh sir?" Jeff's voice dripped with sarcasm. The other man moved in close and gripped his arm firmly.

"I know you're still hurting over Shepard, Moreau, but you're not the only one."

"But it's my fault," Joker deliberately shrugged off Anderson's hand, "Isn't it?"

The captain sighed, "I don't think so, Moreau, knowing Shepard, she would have found some excuse to go down with the ship. You weren't the only one still aboard."

"And what does Alliance brass think?" he asked bitterly, already knowing the answer.

Anderson gave a brief nod; he didn't need to say anything else.

Joker sank back into his seat, numb despite his expectations, ears ringing. He'd blamed himself, sure, but the official confirmation…

"So I'm grounded." He tried to get used to the words. Anderson walked behind his chair, voice uncharacteristically gentle.

"I'm sorry, Jeff. It's probably just a temporary probation. Just until—"

Anderson's door hissed open and Jeff turned to see a tall older man in Alliance dress uniform. An admiral.

"Ghota," Captain Anderson was visibly shaken, "What are you-?"

"Flight Lieutenant Moreau?" Pale blue eyes, as cold as ice, flicked disdainfully over Jokers, lingering scornfully on his leg braces.

"That's me, sir," Joker answered suspiciously, rising to give a formal salute. The new man nodded curtly and turned to Anderson.

"Dismissed, Captain."

Anderson frowned, and Jeff could see he resented Ghota's imperious command, but he saluted crisply and exited his own office.

Ghota walked to the window, back ramrod straight, and stood at parade rest before the view. Jeff sized up the other man, taking in the disproportionately broad shoulders, the thin scar that wound from the bridge of his nose to disappear under the starched collar, and the silver hair cropped painfully short. He hadn't ridden a desk to the top of the command chain.

"The Citadel is the pinnacle of galactic progress," Ghota said finally, not turning from his view of the Presidium, "It is the very symbol of trans-species harmony."

"Yeah, it's not too bad," Jeff said cautiously, "Pretty amazing that it's been here longer than asari have had headtails, huh?"

The admiral allowed a period of stony disapproving silence before turning to face the younger man.

"Commander Shepard was as much of a symbol as the Citadel. She represented the progress and potential of humanity. Through her, the Alliance was able to gain in power, respect, and our species was moving in the right direction—taking our place among the leading races of the galaxy."

"That's beautiful. You should really campaign for Terra Firma." Joker tried to quell the well of resentment, sarcasm, and anger rising within him, biting down on a more offensive response. "She also made a mean varren stew." _**Don't preach to me, bastard, you didn't even know her**_.

Ghota smiled thinly, but his eyes were cold. He rapped a knuckle against the glass of the window.

"These panes are surprisingly thin," he remarked offhandedly, "I doubt they would be in compliance with safety standards back on Earth."

Joker's green eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue.

"But I digress," the admiral moved to lean against Anderson's desk, pale eyes burning hatefully, "We were discussing your former CO, were we not?"

"Actually, you were bullshitting an epithet." Oh my, that had just slipped out.

Ghota slammed a fist down in the desk and pushed his snarling visage alarmingly close to Joker's face. "I will brook no further insubordination from a pathetic little shit like you!"

Jeff grinned brazenly but with little actual humor. He settled back and crossed his arms. _**To hell with it**_. "Admiral, I'm concerned, have you ever been diagnosed with bipolar disorder?"

Ghota's expression slipped smoothly back to a frosty mask. He slowly drew himself back into a reserved and formal posture. This guy was not normal. Jeff was careful to keep his challenging smirk, but inwardly he began to feel small pangs of fear.

"You were correct about my…unfamiliarity…with the late Commander Shepard. I assume, as part of her crew, you knew her?"

"Better than most," Jeff admitted suspiciously. Where was this going?

"Perhaps you could tell me about her?" Ghota turned back to the large window.

Joker swallowed the initial bitter anger. He didn't want this man to talk about her, didn't want to talk about her to him, but maybe the sooner he cooperated, the sooner Ghota would come to his point and leave.

"She was brave and strong—emotionally as well as physically," Jeff's gaze dropped to his hands, "Very…honorable. Always honest. She truly cared about people, whatever their species." Ghota didn't move, so Joker continued haltingly, feeling something start to loosen within him.

"She would always blame herself—you could see she still dreamed about Akuze—but she would never let any personal issues conflict with her mission."

He remembered the late night shifts when she'd come down to the cockpit and sit in the copilot's chair, wordlessly watching space or indulgently listening to his petty rants. It was never about her—she'd never ask for help of comfort, but she wanted to laugh so she'd come to him. He could still remember watching her drift off to sleep in the chair next to him, the premature worry lines briefly smoothing out and the tightly restrained hair slipping loose.

"She had this funny little laugh—" He stopped, remembering his present company.

Ghota still faced away from him. "You cared about her."

It was a statement, but Jeff answered defensively, "She was my commanding officer and my friend. Sir."

"Of course. I can hardly imagine the way you must feel—being responsible for the death of such an icon and a…friend. Not that you could ever have had much of a future with her anyway."

Jeff gripped the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles cracked and literally bit his tongue to avoid assaulting the other man in any sense of the word but mentally. Inwardly, he raged at the older man—imagined feeding him piece by piece to a thresher maw. When he finally managed to control himself, he stood up.

"I know what you're doing." His voice was level, but barely so.

Ghota arched an eyebrow, a cruel smile spreading across his thin lips.

"You're trying to make me snap—get me kicked out of the Alliance, maybe even throw me in jail or—" he jerked a thumb to the window, "get me to do a pavement dive."

He felt his control slipping and his voice grew louder, "But you can't. I'm done feeling guilty over this shit. She's dead ye. Now we have to deal with the next galactic threat without her. Now I have to live with the fact that I am responsible, yes, for her death. But you have no goddamn right to come waltzing in and telling me how to feel or about what a big loss she is."

He crossed the few feet to stand in front of the admiral, the pain in his legs vanishing under the influence of anger.

"You have no right to talk about her and you better get to whatever the hell you wanted to say, because I am _this_ close to walking out the goddamn door."

Ghota smiled, "Now why would I want to do any of those things, Lieutenant? If you're feeling depressed, I think you should talk to a psychiatrist, or maybe one of the Consort's attendants. Maybe you could work on your temper problem then, too."

Jeff shook his head, but kept quiet, turning to go.

"Maybe it's for the best that she's dead," the admiral said casually, "She sounds like a damn alien-lover. Probably spread her legs for half her adopted crew, the little slut."

Joker launched himself at the other man, punching him square in the teeth.

A brief fight later, and Joker was in the Wards Hospital, his fractured femur, internal injuries, and multiple broken fingers being attended to by a slim and distinctly French doctor. The next day, Anderson came by his hospital cot with a sympathetic expression and the official documents—dishonorable discharge for assaulting a superior officer and a thousand credit fine.


	3. Withered Roots

"Hey Mom."

"Jeff! I haven't heard your voice in forever." Not accusing, sad, which was even worse.

"I'm sorry, I…" He rubbed his face wearily, "I don't call you enough."

"It's enough that you're calling now, Jeffrey."

Pause. He didn't know what to say—what could he say? They hadn't seen each other since Dad had died, and that was three years ago. The last time he'd talked to her was…two years ago, when he'd finished over at Flight School, and even then he'd only bragged about himself.

He rested his forehead against the cool duragel screen. What the hell kind of person was he?

"Jeff? You still there, hon?"

"Yeah, Mom." Physically, at least.

"How's work?"

"Fine." He lied easily. Always had.

"I heard about your ship."

"Yeah." He closed his eyes, seeing flames and debris, and a tiny, still figure again.

"I'm sorry, Jeff. I was so worried when I saw it on the news—I didn't know it…if…" Her voice cracked and he put a hand to the screen as if he could comfort her.

"Mom, I shoulda called—don't worry, okay? I was just…I had other problems."

He could hear her blow her nose. She had allergies, he remembered suddenly, and wondered what season it was on Elysium.

"What's bothering you?"

"Nothing, Mom, it's kinda…"

"You can talk to me, Jeff." Who else did he have? She sounded so eager to hear his pain—no, he corrected himself, to hear him. She was so lonely.

"My…friend died when we lost the ship." It hurt coming out, but it was a good pain.

"Oh, Jeff, I'm so sorry," she was using her "maternal consolation" voice he remembered from childhood.

"It's okay, I'm trying to deal, but…I miss her." He could tell she wanted to know if his friend had ever been…but she restrained herself.

Another strained pause. Suddenly he was irritated, restless.

"I gotta go, Mom."

"Okay, Jeff, I love you!" Her voice rose, desperate to keep him on the line. A stab of guilt—he pushed it aside.

"You too." He cut the transmission.


	4. An Unexpected Visitor

His buzzer rang. The grating sound pierced his bleary morning mentality, aggravating the hangover headache he'd meticulously cultivated for hours last night.

"Sh-Shit!" He tumbled off the low couch, miraculously avoiding breaking anything.

The infernal buzzer rang again, and he slapped angrily at the floor.

"Patience is a virtue!" He yelled petulantly.

It went off again. Whoever was at the door was beginning to piss him off.

"If you want me to answer the door in anything more than my charming personality, you'll leave the freaking buzzer alone!"

Glorious silence descended in the apartment, and Joker grinned, adjusting his sweatpants. He got up with difficulty and lazily plucked a dirty shirt from the floor. He sniffed it gingerly, considered, then shrugged it on, deciding it couldn't be more than a few days old.

Joker limped to the door and thumbed the entrance pad, opening the door.

"It's about time," snapped the woman on the other side in a distinctly Australian accent. She swept past him and looked around the room with a haughty sneer. Jeff took the time to admire the fit of her white combat suit—what was that? Latex?—and ran a hand over his matted brown hair to flatten it. Flawless curvaceous women didn't habitually drop in to his apartment. Probably a case of mistaken identity or address.

"Not that I'm complaining, sweetheart, but I think ya got the wrong guy. Harkin lives a few floors up."

She arched an eyebrow and her arms flared with the ethereal glow of biotics.

"I'm not a hooker."

Tricky little thing. Managed to put herself on the higher moral ground without giving anything away. Well he wasn't about to grovel in desperate remorse for making a reasonable, if inaccurate, assumption. He raised his own eyebrow and mimicked her pose—arms crossed, full weight on one hip with one leg bent to the side. "Neither am I."

Her mouth quirked but she didn't smile. Joker inwardly dubbed her the Ice Queen.

"You're Jeff Moreau? The ex-Alliance pilot?"

"What's it to you? You're in my apartment, lady. Why?" He hobbled over to the sidetable, watching her reaction from the corner of his eye, and picked u his old hat.

She didn't blink at his gait, but tossed her gleaming dark hair in irritation at his response.

"Miranda Lawson. I'm here to talk business if you're interested."

"Hm. I happen to be conveniently unemployed at the moment." He pulled his cap on, tugging it experimentally to the side.

She smiled thinly, "We know."

"Who's we?"

"I represent a very powerful and expansive organization. If you choose to cooperate, you will receive double your previous Alliance salary."

"That wasn't the question." He casually sat on the couch, slipping a hand between the cushions in search of the small pistol he'd stashed there when he'd first bought the apartment.

Miranda sighed, "Cerberus."

Joker abandoned all pretense of stealth, ripping the cushion aside, finding the comforting coolness of the weapon, and leveling it at the woman's head. She slowly held her slender arms out.

"Are you going to search me?" she mocked.

"Don't tempt me. What does Cerberus want with me? Shepard hated you guys, why should I help you xenophobes?"

"We've recovered her remains," she said simply. He almost dropped the gun.

"But—"

"What I'm about to tell you is strictly classified," she let her arms fall and sat next to him on the couch, shapely legs crossed, "The safety's still on, by the way."

He glanced down at the weapon, saw she was right, and flung it away, disgusted.

"I am the head of a special unit in Cerberus, called the Lazarus project."

"Is that-?"

"A biblical reference, yes."

"That's a bit…I dunno, pretentious. I know a soldier who'd plug you full of lead for that."

She rolled her eyes, "Anyway, the Lazarus project is devoted to the, for lack of a less dramatic word, resurrection of one person. Just one."

Jeff blinked. There was no reason to ask who—there was only one person worth the investment. "B-but why? She _hated_ you."

Miranda met his gaze steadily. "Shepard was more than the actual savior of the Citadel—she represented the abilities and value of humanity as a whole. The first human Spectre whose morals and intentions could not be doubted by any alien species, showing that _we_ deserved a place of power in the galaxy. It doesn't matter that she hated us, or that the bases she compromised and experiments she disrupted have already cost us a fortune—"

Jeff smirked, remembering that special glow that surrounded the commander after every anti-Cerberus foray. Miranda scowled and went on.

"Humanity needs her. We represent the interests of humanity."

"Okay, I'll skip the bit about how this shouldn't even be possible—"

"Good. I doubt I could dumb it down sufficiently for you."

He favored her with one of his withering glares. She smiled sweetly.

"Why do you need me?"

She leaned back. "Cerberus…could always use another pilot, especially one with your level of skill and experience."

"Bullshit, sweetheart."

Miranda glared at him, her thick lips curling unpleasantly. "Alright, the Illusive Man wants Shepard exactly as she used to be—physically and mentally. He wouldn't sanction my suggestion of a brain control chip so we'll have no real influence over her."

"You want me as a bargaining chip? A little crooked carrot to keep her following your boss's orders?" He felt the anger returning, burning away the horror he'd felt at the thought of a zombie will-less Shepard.

"Partially, yes." Miranda unfolded her hands, casually placing them in her lap, but Joker knew she could use her biotics in an instant if she needed to.

"Well, your honesty is commendable," he said bitterly, "What else?"

"As I'd said before, the Illusive Man wants Shepard with all her…individuality intact. We need people who knew her, who can tell if she's acting normally. Additionally, seeing some familiar faces in Cerberus uniform might incline her to be more cooperative in the long run."

Jeff closed his eyes, feeling the tired ache in his legs. If they could bring her back…his heart beat uncertainly. She wouldn't be the same. You don't die and come back the same. But if they did bring her back, she'd be alone and confused in the clutches of Cerberus. He remembered seeing Kahoku's body through Shepard's helmet-feed; the admiral had died angry and alone and afraid. Cerberus had callously doomed thousands of people to death in the name of whatever arcane scientific experiments they took up in order to "advance humanity". He looked critically at Miranda—he didn't trust her with Shepard, even if her boss had prohibited her direct manipulations.

"What's my motivation?" He folded his arms, felt the familiar unreadable mask settle over his face. Just because he'd made up his mind didn't mean he couldn't try and milk the deal.

Lawson smiled confidently. "Double your old Alliance pay and a constant job where you most want to be."

He arched his eyebrow. "Surrounded by nubile asari on a tropical beach?"

She sneered. "Up there. In space and in control. Where you are significant…special."

Joker felt like she'd slapped him or smashed into his ribcage and torn out his still-beating heat.

"Where did—how do you…what the hell are you talking about?"

She stood up luxuriously, turning to draw attention to her ass. He gave it a cursory glance—he always had time for art appreciation—but maintained his challenging glare. A flicker of disappointment—insecurity?—shadowed her undeniably beautiful features, but it was gone before he could read much. Miranda tossed her gleaming tresses haughtily.

"We've done our due diligence, Mr. Moreau. Academy transcripts, reports, psychological profiles, and so on. We needed to know you."

"What ever happened to good old-fashioned communication?" He drawled sarcastically.

"Obviously," she ignored him, "we know about your condition. Some of our top scientists and doctors have come up with an…experimental treatment."

"A cure for Vrolik's?" He wasn't sure how to react. He'd lived his whole life under that damn disease's limitations. The condition had, not defined him, but definitely shaped him—

"No," she said firmly, but there was a hint of apology in her voice, even sympathy, "Not a cure, more like a…dilution. Your bones will be stronger, you could walk without the braces, but you would still be more…susceptible to injury than the average person."

He looked down at his legs, thinking in silence for a long time. To her credit, Lawson let him think in peace, looking over her shoulder at his apartment.

"I'll join up, but for Shepard, not you." It came out harsher than intended, and he tried to backtrack, "What I mean is, I don't like Cerberus but…"

Miranda nodded, unoffended, "And the treatments?"

Joker sighed, rubbing wearily at his eyes, "I don't know. I'll need some time to think about it."

The woman stood and produced an OSD. How she'd managed to conceal it on her skintight suit was beyond Joker.

"Here's some detailed information. We've also bought a ticket for you, aboard a starliner passenger ship—first class—to a Cerberus research station. It leaves tomorrow, so I suggest you start packing." She walked out the door without a backward glance.


	5. Never Again

It was weird to be a passenger. Jeff shifted uncomfortably in the cracked faux-leather seat, watching the mass effect relay arc into view from the side-window. He didn't like it.

He rolled his gaze around the cramped room, scanning the other organic cargo. A few B holo-series celebs, some small-fish politicians…first-class had nothing on the pilot's seat. Although…he did a double take at a familiar shape in the corner and his heart skipped a beat. _**She**_—the woman turned, Joker saw her face, and he sank in his chair. Stupid.

Gaaya Richards had been chosen to play Commander Senna Shepard in the critically acclaimed series _Beyond the Stars: A Soldier's Struggles_, commissioned shortly after the Council had released the official story of Sovereign's attack. Richards was picked, in Joker's opinion, because she resembled Shepard so strongly—she had the same brown eyes, same thick dark hair, and athletic figure. After secretly watching the premier episode, he had concluded it had nothing to do with talent. For a moment…

Joker turned back to the side-window, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Brown locks swished by his face in memory, dark eyes glittered. _**Oh, God, the party**_.

_"C'mon, Shepard, it's your party, you have to go!" Ashley had slapped at her superior's shoulder. The commander waved her off, grinning uncomfortably. He'd busied himself with basic diagnostics, hoping they wouldn't drag him into it or notice he was listening in. The two women were standing at the threshold of the airlock—Shepard had just finished being debriefed (he grinned) by Anderson at the Embassy and Williams was due in an hour._

_ "Aw, Ash, I have tons of paperwork and I'm not really the party type…" Shepard switched her weight, unknowingly giving Joker a prime view of her—_

"Excuse me?" Dark brown eyes hovered close over his head, long lashed blinked inquiringly. "Do I know you?"

Fuuuu—He shook his head and smiled thinly, "I doubt it."

"Oh, well, you were…" The actress (he used the term loosely) jerked a slender thumb behind her, smiling sappily.

"Yeah, sorry, you just reminded me of someone." He reached up to tug at his cap, remembering too late that he'd packed it away. He scratched at his forehead to cover the automatic gesture.

"I get that a lot!" She laughed, tossing her thick hair back over her shoulders. He shuddered inwardly, hating that she could make him think, for even one second—she was leaving. Good.

He rubbed a hand over his short hair, sighing as he turned back to the space view. He'd missed the jump; there was only dull black interrupted by thin pinpricks of stars and a faint blue ambiance that indicated travel. He closed his eyes again.

_"Skipper, we're celebrating the defeat of Sovereign! We can't do that without the woman who defeated him."_

_ Shepard shook her head. "It was a team effort, Ash."_

_ Ashley scowled, "You're beginning to sound like a politician. Just one party? Please?"_

_ Joker twisted his neck to see the Gunnery Chief's face and snorted at the attempted puppy eyes. She was too intent on Shepard to notice him spying. Apparently, Shepard was caving; Ashley's pleading pout gave way to a triumphant grin._

_ "Okay, fine," the first human Spectre laughed, "But I am not dancing, okay?"_

_ "Yes!" Ashley pumped a fist, "We'll see about that tonight, Skipper. Anyway, I gotta go." She sauntered through the airlock, waving sarcastically, "Toodles."_

_ Joker turned back to his consoles, glad to have avoided involvement. He __**hated**__ parties. Hated the crush of loud, happy, and usually sloshed people who could fall over and come back up grinning. Parties meant bad karaoke and nasty lukewarm alcohol and—_

_ "Hello, Lieutenant, did you get an earful?" The Commander's voice was low and clear, melodic._

_**More like an eyeful.**__ "I don't know what you're talking about, Commander." He kept his face innocently open, green eyes wide. She didn't buy it._

_ "So are you coming?" She leaned against the copilot seat, arms folded. She hadn't sat down in it since Kaiden's death._

_ "Eeeeeeeeeehhhh, no." He kept his fingers moving, although if she looked closely, she'd have noticed he wasn't doing anything._

_ "You should come." She stretched her back, groaning softly at a small pop. He'd shaken his head, inwardly crushing the treacherous thoughts triggered by her innocent noise._

_ "I don't do parties, Commander."_

_ "Joker, if I have to go then, as far as I'm concerned, attendance is mandatory."_

_ "I'm feeling sick," he coughed pitifully, then tried to give her puppy eyes. Hey, it had worked for Williams. She grinned and shook her head._

_ "Not gonna work, Joker, I know you too well."_

_ "You don't know me at all," he snapped, angry that his ploy had failed. It came out harsher than intended and she jerked back, hurt flickering briefly across her face. __**Shit.**__ "I'm sorry, Commander, I didn't—"_

_ "No, you're right, Lieutenant." She straightened, face carefully composed. "If you're really sick, Chakwas is always in the medbay. I'll be at the party tonight if you need anything."_

_ He bit fiercely at the inside of his mouth but nodded. He couldn't salvage this conversation, best to just wrap it up and make up for it later. She left, posture perfect military-straight._

_ Why was he always pushing her away? He bitterly rubbed the back of his neck. He knew he was bad with people. He knew he was afraid to let anyone in—close enough to feel was close enough to hurt. If he could let anyone past his barriers, it would be her. She was so much better than him: honest, caring, honorable, friendly, virtuous. The kind of person you fell in love with when you knew it was impossible…maybe even because you knew it was impossible. Stupid. Everyone and their pet pyjak was in love with Shepard, especially since the defeat of Sovereign._

_ He lay back in his chair, abandoning all pretense of work. First Kaiden, Liara, that Verner sap…he'd seen it in Garrus's eyes, heard it in the late-night whispers of lowly crewmembers. He'd never been the type to jump on the bandwagon, always considered himself more individual than to go for that kind of shit. Now there were holo-specials, programs, several unapproved biographies, and even a movie on the way…What was so intoxicating about her?_

_ Physically, she wasn't particularly remarkable. Passably pretty—her eyes were definitely her best feature. Not much of a figure. It was her character, her uncanny ability to lead, her rock-hard conviction, that was so damn appealing. Her background didn't hurt either—the only survivor of a Mindoir raid when she was little more than a child, and the last one alive of her unit on Akuze. She'd seen pain, tragedy, unspeakable evils, but she still fought for an ideal and was, at times, annoyingly righteous._

_ But she was his CO. His friend. Or, he thought angrily, she __**was **__his friend. He'd hurt her pretty badly. __**Shit**__. He'd have to go to that stupid party. He ran an unnecessary systems diagnostic, thinking about what he could say to her._

Joker knocked his head softly against the back of his seat. **Stop it, stop it, stop it.** He didn't want to remember this. He looked for a distraction but his mind wouldn't let him escape.

_It was loud, as he had expected. Crew in casual dress milled pointlessly around a repurposed mess area. __**What a strategic place for a party**__, he thought sarcastically, __**Medbay is next-door and the sleeping pods are just a short walk away.**__ Some new-age techno/synthesizer music was blaring, blasting away endangered brain cells. _

_ His braces pinched at his pant-legs, and he took a deep breath, reminding himself that he was just here to talk to Shepard. Where was she?_

_ He'd been late. Not fashionably late—that was bullshit. The party had been in full swing for at least two hours. He scanned the crowd for the Commander's dark ponytail. Jesus, how many people were on this ship?_

_ Wrex was at the mess table (the burly krogan took up three seats). Empty cups were arranged before him like collected trophies from hard-won kills and he was good-naturedly creaming a green-faced private in a drinking contest. Garrus was watching warily, presumably his C-Sec training had covered risk-assessment and a drunken krogan definitely constituted a hazard. He needn't have worried, though. From the looks of it, the strength of the alcohol was nowhere near the potency needed to overcome a krogan's metabolism. No Shepard._

_ Ashley, Liara, and Tali were dancing(badly) in the center of the mob. Joker arched an eyebrow, surprised to see the Chief so relaxed with the aliens. Maybe she wasn't as racist as everyone made her out to be. Her smile was too wide to be fake. Still no Shepard._

_ Maybe a different angle? He skirted the happy gaggle, nodded to an uncomfortable Pressly, and leaned gratefully against the row of lockers, green eyes still searching the crowd in vain._

_ "Looking for someone?" He jumped at her voice and his feet slipped, sending him to the floor with a jarring thump._

_ "Shit!" He was lucky he hadn't broken anything. "Ow, my ass…"_

_ "You okay?" Shepard's tone was concerned, she offered him her hand. Why the hell did she have to be nice to him? He hesitated, then took her hand, shame stinging his cheeks._

_ "Yeah, thanks." He looked to see if anyone was laughing at him. Nope. They were all to busy…doing whatever it was people did when they partied._

_ "Same thing happened to me a while ago. I guess there's something wrong with the lockers." She smiled at him, inviting him to relax. He noticed her hair was down, thick burnette curls that gleamed softly in the strangely orange light. He suddenly had trouble thinking._

_ "I—uh—you did?" His floundering brain latched onto the first response it found._

_ "Yeah, um, before Virmire." She could have been blushing, but it was impossible to tell, "Actually, that was just before…you called me on the intercom."_

_ Wait, that had—"When Kaiden tried to kiss you?" As the words left his mouth, it occurred to him that they might have been 'inside words'. Yeah, she was definitely blushing, but no smile. He swallowed dryly. __**If she had fallen, Kaiden had helped her up, and tried to kiss her…**__His gaze slipped from her dark eyes, down to the floor, behind him to the lockers, and was drawn back up to those twin pools of chocolate. She wouldn't. Did he want her to?_

_ "Yes. Um," her eyes left his, darting to the floor, "Did you want to tell me something, Joker?" _

_**Yes.**__ "I…" __**Tell her. **__"About what I said before. I didn't mean that." __**You coward.**_

_ "Oh," she frowned slightly, one hand coming up to chest-level. He noticed a small plastic cup held delicately in her slim fingers, full to the brim with amber liquid. He'd never seen her drink before. He wondered distantly if she'd just taken it to be polite._

_ "Yeah, you um…" She blinked deliberately and he lost his train of thought. Maybe it was the bass in that damn music. Her face fell, disappointed._

_ "Joker, if you don't mean it, don't say it." She turned from him, hair slipping silkily over her shoulder, eyes glinting with tears._

_ "Shepard, no…" He reached uselessly after her, "You're my best friend." __**You goddamn fucking coward.**_

_ She didn't hear him. Her lithe figure disappeared into the crush of people. "Shepard!"_

_ She avoided him after that. The next time he saw her, she was pulling him out of his pilot chair and his world was ending._

Joker put his head in his hands, feeling hot tears burning down his cheeks. Why hadn't he been able to tell her? He'd thought she'd died without ever knowing how much she meant to him, that he'd never get to make it up to her. But she was getting a second chance, he was getting a second chance, and Cerberus had given it to them. He didn't know how long it would take, or whether they could be trusted, but he'd take that damn chance and run with it. He looked up and out the window.

"I won't let you down again," he vowed, staring angrily at the little stars, "Never again."


	6. Bait

Miranda was there to greet him when the ship docked. She wore the same scaly white catsuit as she had when she'd visited his apartment. She looked satisfied, if not exactly pleased, to see him.

"Hey, love, care to give me a hand?" He fluttered his eyelashes at her and smiled sappily. Nice? Not really. Mature? No. But he was feeling tired and irritable over the long flight, and his luggage weighed a _ton._ "Who turned up the gravity, anyway?"

Lawson sneered. "Our research station is on one of this planet's moons. We'll be taking a private shuttle."

Great. He'd be a passenger again. A familiar flicker on the edge of his vision—no. Shit. He gripped the handle of his suitcase tighter, turning his head violently from the spectacle of that damned Richards disembarking. Miranda cocked an eyebrow at his reaction, then looked back behind him, gray eyes immediately discerning the issue.

Her eyes narrowed. "What a bloody ditz. My apologies, Lieutenant, I didn't know she was on the same shuttle."

" 'Sokay," Joker mumbled, surprised that she had apologized, strangely relieved that she held the actress in similarly low regards, and embarrassed that she'd seen how that woman affected him. He hefted the suitcase pointedly. "So, where to now?"

Lawson nodded curtly and led him through the spaceport, keeping a slow pace that he could follow. His cheeks burned in anger and humiliation as he hobbled along, leg braced clicking (to his ears) extraordinarily loudly. _**Screw her, he didn't need **_— he landed a little too heavily on his right leg and pain shot up his crooked tibia. _**Shit!**_ Okay, maybe he _did_ need a little… consideration. But he refused to take it with good grace. Jeff didn't need or want pity, no sir.

Shepard had never pitied him. He lugged that heavy suitcase, eyes on Miranda's ass, thoughts in what felt like the distant past.

_Anger flared within him, immediate and resentful. The bitter voice within his head crowed in triumph. __**See?**__ It cried gloatingly, __**She is like all the others. You'll never be more than the charity case with the crooked legs to her.**_

_ "Oh, I get what this is all about," he snarled, swallowing sour disappointment, "You read my file. Well I'll tell you the same thing I told Anderson — top of my class at Flight School? I _earned_ that. All those commendations? I earned them too — Not some handouts for my disease. You don't want me because I'm good — I'm the best damn helmsman the galaxy has to offer and that's got nothing to do with my condition."_

_ He felt somewhat emptied when he'd finished, but a cruel satisfaction filled him at the panic in her wide dark eyes._

_ "I-I'm sorry, Joker, I didn't know you were sick." Her expression was one of such honest and earnest regret that Jeff's heart ached suddenly, painfully. __**No you don't, not your commanding officer.**_

_ "Wait, 'sick'?" Crap. He laughed hollowly, "Ah, hell, you didn't read my file did you? You didn't know?"_

_ She shook her head, confused. He found himself explaining Vrolik's to her, his inner cynic scrutinizing her face for the inevitable progression: comprehension, indecision, discomfort, patronizing pity._

_ She nodded as he spoke, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration, asking him questions now and then. Her mouth never twisted in that familiar smirk, her brows never bent in a caricature of sympathy._

_ Acceptance. She'd heard his inescapable shame and she'd accepted it, him. He couldn't believe it, didn't dare to hope that someone could see past the damned disease—_

_ "Why are you so curious?" he demanded suspiciously._

_ "I want to know my crew, Joker." She smiled amiably, not one iota of simpering pity in those dark, beautiful eyes, and he knew he was enslaved._

"We're here." The impatience in the Aussie's strident tones made it clear that this was not the first time she'd spoken.

"Wh — sorry." Joker shook his head, trying to dispel the shrouds of memory that clung to his head like cobwebs. He looked up at… his jaw dropped.

"This isn't a shuttle," he whispered in reverence, green eyes locked on the smooth lines of the vessel in front of him. "It's an M-class Nightwing! A hybrid between a luxury starliner and a stealth bomber. These things are rare, still in their experimental phase, I'd heard." An orange logo caught his eye, and his enthusiasm ebbed; he was reminded who he was working for now, and why.

Miranda smiled slightly, amused by his outburst. "You'll find that, at Cerberus, you'll have many things available to you which you never would have before."

Something about that struck him as ominous. Was she referring to the ships, the new surgery, or something… he pushed the guilty paranoia away. They were going to bring her back, that was the only enticement he needed. He fell back into his default mode.

"Just as long as I don't need to wear a catsuit like that," he gestured, smirking at Miranda's uniform, "I'd hate to make you look bad."

The brunette rolled her eyes and ushered him aboard the ship (a Nightwing! He couldn't believe it). _**Still with the Ice Queen routine.**_ Shepard would have laughed. Or at least pretended to.

He slung his suitcase heavily onto one of the wide black passenger seats, staring hungrily up at the blue-lit cockpit ahead. _**What I wouldn't give…**_

You don't grow up on a space station and escape a love, some might even say 'obsession', for ships, and the Nightwing model was a pilot's dream. According to design, she was supposed to handle smoothly, her response was so sensitive, some testers swore she was reacting to guidance of thought, not touch. Smooth, sleek, powerful… deadly in a fight with pirates, awe-inspiring when docking into port, quietly perfect. _**Of course, she's got nothing on the old Normandy**_, Jeff thought stubbornly. He was nothing if not loyal.

"Would you like to fly her out?" Lawson's glance was furtive, perhaps calculating, but he didn't care.

"Hell yes!" He was up the shallow metal stairs to the cockpit in a flash. Well, as much of a flash as Vrolik's would allow. He dimly heard Miranda follow, but was too transfixed by the ship to truly take notice. Cold lights flickered, blue and frosty white in jet-black panels — the viewport was wide, tall, and polarized, to be controlled by a switch near the pilot's chair. The pilot's chair… his mouth fell open a second time and he ran a hand tentatively over the headrest.

Leather. Genuine dead-cow leather. _Black_ leather, what's more — rare _and_ sexy. He felt a grin spread across his face, a real grin, like he hadn't felt in months.

Joker lowered himself gingerly into the marvelous chair and inhaled deeply.

"Ah, that 'new ship' smell. Nothin' like it." He turned to Miranda, smiling, but something clicked in the back of his mind.

"Where's your pilot?" he asked casually, activating the duragel panels and holo-readouts.

"I suppose he's running late. I'll contact him, tell him we no longer require his services."

Her response was as casual, natural, as off-handed as his question, but Joker could tell she was lying. _**They had planned to let me fly this. And to make it seem like a snap decision.**_

He shrugged, smirking. "Poor bastard missed out then. Where to?" He half-listened to her response, nodded and preformed the expected gestures, but the magic had left the whole scene and he was thinking critically and cautiously to himself.

_**Another attempt to entice me. I've already agreed to work with them, why keep pushing? They still want something from me, or want me to want to stay… I've gotta be careful.**_

He steered the Nightwing out of port, then through the inky black of space, a part of him reveling in the return to the pilot's seat, a part of him dreading whatever lay ahead.

Miranda was smiling at his side, eyes half-lidded lazily like a lioness in the sun with a crooked little mouse in her paws.

_**Be careful, be careful, be careful…**_


	7. In the Spider's Web

The Cerberus facility was unlike any Joker had seen before. When they'd been hunting for Saren, they'd often discovered hidden bunkers, underground labs…always designed to look like storage buildings or innocuous mineral refineries—this place made no attempt to disguise its presence. White sprawling buildings stood stark against the dull rock of the cliff chosen, no doubt, for its limited accessibility.

_Paranoia or caution? Do they expect an attack?_ Jeff swung the Nightwing into a slow and gradual descent, taking as much time as he could to case the place. As they moved in closer, he could see the orange insignia emblazoned on the side of every building, often accompanied by strange black symbols. They were probably coded for the respective purpose of each structure. He swallowed, wondering which one housed her body. _Don't think about that._

"Take her down to that one. Starboard."

"Which one?" Miranda's voice had provided a welcome interruption to what promised to be a macabre train of thought. He followed her finger. Okay, the big one. Made sense—any hangar that would fit a Nightwing plus whatever miscellaneous freight vessels Cerberus used would have to be big.

Miranda activated her omnitool and punched out a brief sequence—authorization code?

Joker tried to look without looking as if he were looking—her icy gray-blue eyes snapped up to his. _Shit._

He gave her a wide and obviously fake grin.

"Shouldn't you be watching where we're going?" she said testily, deactivating her omnitool with a terse wave of her hand.

"Yes, Cruella." He brought his gaze back to the approach. The hangar doors opened wide and he saw that the floor level was actually much lower than the actual ground level. _Deceptive. What else do they have hidden here?_

He felt a swell of pleasure as he guided the Nightwing smoothly past the doors. Everything he'd heard was right—she handled like a dream. The landing was gentler than a whisper and Joker was sad to shut down the controls.

Miranda stood from the copilot's seat, stretching luxuriously. Joker sighed inwardly. _Yeah, you've got a nice body, you don't need to be flaunting it all the time._ She frowned briefly, as if disappointed he hadn't melted into a puddle of hormones. He had a hard time hiding his smirk. _I'm not that easy._

_ "_Was she all you thought she'd be?" The woman gestured around the cockpit.

He looked about, nodding reluctantly as he tried to memorize the simple, swooping design, the cool flickers of light, and the subtle harmony of the handling. It was a rare and beautiful ship. He'd probably never fly a Nightwing again. "She's great. Thanks for letting me—"

"She's yours." Lawson smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "A token of Cerberus appreciation."

Elation struggled with cynical suspicion. Of course they'd give him the ship. Cerberus obviously had a wealth of resources and credits—one little Nightwing wouldn't put a dent in their coffers. But it was overkill—too pretty a present for a crippled outsider pilot whose main value was bait. _Be careful._

He swallowed, knowing she needed a response. He decided to be blunt.

"What do you want for her?"

Miranda nodded slightly, something approaching respect in her eyes. "We'd like you to undergo the surgery."

This again. He eyed the ship hungrily, gaze lingering on the amazingly comfortable seat. "Why is it so important to you?" He hadn't made up his mind yet but this new enticement made him even more leery of the proposition. _Still…a Nightwing…_

Miranda exited the cockpit, beckoning him to follow her. She picked his suitcase up off of the passenger seat with fluid ease and Joker scowled, irritated at her lack of an answer and her casual strength. She was too skinny for that—Jeff may not win any medals, but he was no weakling and that bag was damn heavy. Not for the first time, he wondered if she wasn't quite…natural.

She activated the exit hatch and mini-gangway, turning to regard him impatiently as the light from outside filtered in, limning her in silver-white. He limped down the little stairs to join her, waiting for the gangway to touch down.

Miranda looked away, towards the hangar ahead. "The operation is…experimental. We cannot guarantee its success, however, in theory it's—"

"Theory? Shit, don't give me 'should-be's!" They were crazy. They were nuttier than pyjak dung, and he'd almost—

"Cerberus has some of the best medical minds, the most advanced technology available. If anyone can help you, Moreau, it's us." Her voice was steady and assured, and he couldn't help but believe her a little. The gangway scraped the floor of the hangar bay and they walked down.

Well, she strode down confidently while he followed at a distinctly slower pace. He cursed his legs, cursed Vrolik's, cursed Miranda, himself, Cerberus, and when he saw the man at the end of the gangway, he cursed him too. Why not?

Miranda greeted him warmly—too warmly for the Ice Queen. Joker cocked his head, studied the stranger in Cerberus uniform (_not_ a catsuit, thankfully there was some variety in the dress code).

He was black or African-American or whatever the PC term was these days. Tall, reasonably good-looking, with a strong face. He carried himself like a soldier—ex-Alliance maybe…too formal to be a merc.

Built kinda like a triangle. Joker kept his face straight as he hobbled down to join them. _Play nice._

"Mr. Moreau, this is Jacob Taylor," Miranda smiled at the other man, eyes soft, "Jacob, this is Shepard's pilot."

Her name hit him like a fist in the stomach. He swallowed, mentally suppressing flashes of dark brown eyes, forcing himself to smile politely. Jacob Taylor extended his hand and they shook.

"Glad to have you with us, Moreau." To his credit, Taylor seemed like a good enough guy. He had that 'earnest-but-not-pushy' handshake—firm enough to be respectful, yet controlled to avoid an aggressive or imposing impression.

Or maybe Joker was over-interpreting things again. He'd done that a lot in Flight School.

"To tell you the truth, I'm just here for Shepard," Joker shrugged slightly, "So I'm with you…for now."

Jacob nodded, "I respect that. Just keep an open mind about this place, okay? Cerberus isn't as evil as the rumors make it out to be—I used to be Alliance myself and there's far less red tape here."

_Maybe because there's less _rules_ here._ Joker nodded though, intrigued in spite of himself. The Alliance had always been crippled by regs, by political obligation and responsibilities. Spectre-hood had given Senna a lot of freedom but she had always been loyal to the marines…would that change when she woke up to Cerberus uniforms? _If,_ he reminded himself, _if she woke up._

Miranda touched Taylor's shoulder, her slim fingers lingering a little too long.

"Moreau, Jacob will take you on a tour of the facilities and he'll answer as many of your questions as he can. I'll get your stuff to your new quarters and you can unpack whenever you like." She smiled one more time at Taylor, then left, her hips switching languidly.

The two men watched her go.

"Is she always…?" Joker twisted his cap backwards, uncertain if he felt more offended or confused.

Taylor gave a short laugh. "Yeah. But that's mostly just a shell. She's really…" He shook his head, looking around the hangar as if to orient himself. "I should show you the place before we start talkin' personal."

He seemed embarrassed to've been caught mooning over Lawson and Joker nodded. Jeff hadn't meant to spark a whole discussion about the woman—he'd had the two pegged as a couple the moment he'd seen Miranda's smile. Jacob seemed to be a decent guy, too—no sense in burning bridges before he'd seen the other side. Besides, he had more important questions.

"How is...I mean how close are you to…what's…shit." Joker closed his eyes in irritation and hideous visions of a mutilated Shepard loomed in his mind's eye. Stitches, black and sloppy, meandered across her still face, her eyes were empty sockets, tubes and wiring—

"Shepard?" Taylor cocked his head, a half-smile on his lips.

Joker nodded mutely, training his eyes on the far wall of the hangar. _Don't think about her like—_he busied himself by filling the cavernous empty space in the hangar with imaginary Nightwings. _One, two, three, four—_

"I'm not really involved with the Lazarus cell, so I can't give you any specifics." Jacob gestured towards the blinding light streaming in from the hangar opening and they started walking. Taylor continued, his smooth voice level. "If you really want to know, you should ask Miranda or Dr. Wilson—they're the ones in charge and they do all the…reconstruction."

Miranda had been working on Shepard. She'd seen her, touched her dead body—she'd done…Joker forced his fists to unclench. She hadn't told them how they were doing.

They exited the hangar and Jacob pointed to a few smaller buildings close by—warehouses, equipment sheds. Not really important.

Jeff looked around the area, noticing the lack of groundcover. _No green,_ e thought distantly. Everything was sterile white, dead gray, or unnatural orange. Depressing.

"You could probably see her, if you like," Taylor offered suddenly, pity in his dark eyes.

"I'd rather not," snapped Jeff, eyeing the other man in sudden dislike. "I'll remember her alive, thanks." The grotesque imaginings flooded back and his stomach roiled with revulsion, fear, and guilt. She was not a fucking freakshow display, he wouldn't dishonor her by gawking at what was left of her.

Taylor nodded, mercifully dropping the subject. He lead thepilot through the compound, stopping at the general mess, the barracks, the site medical center, and the gym. Yeah right, like Joker would ever be in there, flaunting his physical inferiority for jocks like Jacob—_no_, he reminded himself, _he's done nothing to deserve that._ He was getting bitter—it was a long walk and Joker's legs hurt like a mother, doing nothing for his steadily souring mood. He gritted his teeth, refusing to play the cripple card in front of the Cerberus operative. But the pain reminded him of something else.

"Why does Cerberus want me to go through the surgery?" Taylor seemed like an honorable guy (which made Cerberus even more confusing) and Joker sure wasn't likely to get much more from Miranda.

Jacob stopped in front of a large gray building, turning to look Jeff straight in the eye. "The Illusive Man wants you in his pocket. Plus, the procedure hasn't been tested much, so…"

Joker laughed, "I'm a guinea pig?"

Taylor shrugged. "I don't think he'd risk it if it wasn't safe. He needs you for Shepard's trust." When Joker smirked, he grinned, "Okay, for her cooperation, then. And if Cerberus comes up with a treatment for Vrolik's, it would be a huge medical achievement and would likely net a sizeable profit."

Jeff looked away, chewing the inside of his cheek. That was probably the best answer he'd get and it made a lot of sense. Something occurred to him.

"Lawson said the Illusive guy wouldn't let her put a control chip in…in Shepard's head." Jacob nodded slightly, waiting. Joker pressed on. "What's to stop you from puttin' one in me while I'm out?"

The other man sighed, thinking quietly for a moment. After some period of deliberation (during which Joker developed a maddening itch under his leg braces), he turned to the building's entrance, motioning Joker to follow him.

"I don't know," he said simply, pressing a palm to the identification lock beside the reinforced door. "But again, I think keeping you…you would be essential to securing Shepard's loyalty—if she ever thought you'd been, well, corrupted, I think she'd go headhunting." The door hissed and an inner lock clicked. It swung wide on its own.

Joker snorted, privately enjoying the idea that she'd feel compelled to avenge him. Not that he deserved it, hell no, but it sounded like the kind of honorable slash thick-headedly loyal thing she'd do. Still… "You didn't know her."

"No, but I know of her. Read files, reports…she seems like a…principled person."

"You have no idea." Joker followed Taylor down a shining tiled hallway, smirking as he remembered her frequent passionate outbursts, cheesy motivational speeches, and her insufferable commitment to what was 'right'. It would've been annoying if it wasn't so cute.

_ Not cute, _he corrected himself firmly, _don't think about her like that. She was so much more—you killed her, you shouldn't demean her._

"What's this building?" Joker didn't want to think about her right now. If she knew he signed up with Cerberus…

Jacob slowed to walk beside the pilot, nodding to doors on either side of the wide hall. "These are the quarters for the higher-level operatives at this facility. They're more spacious, private, and comfortable than the general barracks. You'll be staying in one of those—" They came to a junction of two hallways and he pointed down the right-hand one—"This is A-wing, first floor. The second floor is mainly devoted to research and experimentation with wings C through G for the Lazarus initiative.

Joker felt a chill. "She's here? In this building?"

Taylor nodded. "If you want to contact Miranda or myself, there's a privat terminal in your room or you can find us in the mess hall or the gym."

"Uh…thanks." The long-winded tour ended this abruptly? Joker started down his hallway which dead-ended. One of the furthermost doors had been propped open with his luggage case. Miranda had obviously taken the utmost care with his worldly belongings.

He turned to look at Jacob.

"Thanks for the tour and the questions and stuff."

Taylor smiled, amused but not scornful. "Just doing my job. Besides, us Alliance-types gotta stick together, right?"

"…Sure." Where the hell had that come from? Joker started to escape into the privacy of his room. He'd never been the hoo-rah type and frankly found it rather stupid, like rabid fans at a torjjik game.

"You want my advice, Moreau?" Joker stopped, that now-familiar sense of muted irritation, confusion, and foreboding washing over him.

"Take the surgery." Taylor's voice was quiet, pitying. A small spark of anger flared within him at the pity—Jacob didn't know him, didn't understand what Vrolik's was or did to a person. He couldn't understand that Joker had lived his life this way, that surgery meant changing himself in drastic ways, meant giving up on an ideal he'd stubbornly established long ago.

"Not without a doctor I trust," he called over his shoulder, shutting the door on any further conversation. He looked briefly around the room before collapsing on the large and ridiculously soft bed. If possible, he was more confused than ever. He tried to fall asleep, struggling to avoid thinking of Senna Shepard's corpse lying cold and bare somewhere above him.


	8. An Anchor

Days turned to weeks, the time melting into an interminable wash of gray the same shad as the facility's dull buildings. Joker spent his time learning about Cerberus—well, as much as he could discern from the closemouthed Miranda and the seemingly uninformed Jacob. The lowly grunts were of no help or importance whatsoever and he doubted they'd been briefed on the importance of the Lazarus project, not to mention furnished with the detail he craved. The only thing people seemed to want to talk about were the Collectors.

Jeff had heard rumors of these things before, but had always dismissed them as bogeymen, fabricated to keep colonies under the Alliance's wing and out of the Terminus systems. Stay close, or the Collectors will get you! Don't use Mass Effect technology on your outpost, or Collectors will get you! Eat all your vegetables, or Collectors will get you! He'd laughed in Miranda's face when she started talking about them.

He'd stopped laughing when she showed him a grainy picture of a Collector ship. That…thing had killed his baby, had sliced her in half and robbed the galaxy of Senna Shepard. Apparently, these "rumors" were abducting whole colonies. Over eighty reported disappearances in the past month alone.

He didn't feel much like laughing these days.

As if it wasn't frustrating enough that he be kept in the dark, he was dying from the sheer apathy. There was nothing for him to do here. He'd asked Lawson if he could fly one of the frequent supply routes and she'd automatically refused. Apparently, Cerberus didn't trust him enough to let him fly alone.

Not that the thought of taking his Nightwing out beyond this sparse system and never coming back wasn't appealing—hell, he'd considered it more than once—but he was more than slightly pissed to find himself grounded again.

"I went from being useless on my own to being useless as a lackey in a psychotic supremacist terrorist organization," he grumbled into his coffeecup one morning. The mess was dirty, poorly lit, and depressingly cold, but it was blessedly empty and they did make a damn fine cup of coffee. He took a large swallow.

"Don't be so negative, Jeff, I'm sure that the Illusive Man is quite sane."

He sprayed chis mouthful of coffee all over the steel table and turned to face the familiar voice.

"Chakwas?" he demanded, jaw dropping, "What the hell are you doing here?"

The elderly doctor smiled, sitting gracefully in the empty chair beside him. The fall of her silver hair was exactly the same as it had been aboard the SR1, her intelligent eyes, her slender frame—she hadn't changed a bit.

"You like you've been through the ringer." She cocked her head, still smiling gently, "I left the Alliance when Anderson told me what they did to you."

"Ah, you didn't have to do that, Doc," Joker looked down at his Styrofoam cup, knuckles whitening as his hands clenched in sudden anger. _**That bastard Ghota—**_

"You should have told me, Jeff," she said softly, sadness creasing her brow.

He felt a pang of guilt. She had always made an effort to talk to him, to know him, to get him to interact with people. She'd obviously thought of him as a sort of surrogate son and when Shepard died, he'd cut all contact with her. "I know. I'm…I'm sorry."

She shook her head briskly, affixing him with a bright eye. "So. I am a little confused as to why I was recruited. They told me about what they're trying to do for the Commander, but that science is beyond my range of expertise."

"They didn't…" Joker grimaced, remembering his parting shot to Jacob on his first night. "You're supposed to give me experimental surgery."

She arched an eyebrow coolly.

He explained the process—as he understood it—to her, his mind whirling along a different track. He was here for Shepard's obedience, Chakwas was here for his…What did the Illusive Man have on her? How far was he willing to go to secure the loyalty of a woman who'd hated his organization with every fiber of her being?

Joker remembered her uncharacteristic rage when she'd discovered Cerberus was behind the Thorium research fronted by ExoGeni. She would never play soldier for the Illusive Man. Unless…he had something greater for her to fight against. Take a crippled pilot, add a doctor, a warrior-commander, and you get…

"He's setting us up to fight the Collectors," Joker murmured, initial surprise giving way to grim certainty. Chakwas frowned slightly and he shifted, gesturing forcefully with his hands in his newfound excitement.

"He needs her—needs us now. It can't be for the Reapers—they're ages away and Cerberus wouldn't worry about saving more than the human race," he grinned, feeling a fierce sort of joy as the thoughts tumbled together and crystallized. "The Collectors take human colonists and only human colonists! This is what we're going after."

The gray-haired doctor did not seem to share his enthusiasm or his confidence. She folded her slender fingers on the tabletop, delicately avoiding the sheen of the coffee he'd spat earlier.

"Whatever Cerberus' intentions may be," she said quietly, her bright eyes level and serious, "We are here—now. The Collectors are a threat, perhaps a more immediate one than the Reapers at this juncture, and we have a duty to meet that danger, whomever our allies."

He nodded, sobering at the reminder of impending galactic doom. The clack of hard bootheels against the mess tilefloor snapped him out of his thoughtful mood and he leaned back in his chair.

Miranda looked pissed. He smiled.

Her porcelain face was drawn tightly, eyes snapping like thin chips of glacial ice, thick lips pressed to a fine line. She stalked up to Chakwas (who didn't bat an eyelash, bless her soul—Joker would've started praying in the face of the horrifying spectre of infuriated estrogen incarnate).

"You were requested to report directly to my office," Lawson's jaw was so stiff it was a wonder she'd managed to talk at all.

Chakwas arched an eyebrow, "I was unaware that a request constituted an order at a civilian installation."

Miranda flicked her dark hair, obviously struggling to restrain her temper. Joker took a gulp of coffee to keep from snickering.

"We've encountered an…anomaly with some of the subject's organ reconstruction matrixes," the biotic muttered reluctantly, "I…I don't have the detailed reports on her lungs, kidneys, ovar—"

"D'ya mind?" Joker growled hurriedly, ears burning and stomach roiling. He didn't want to hear Shepard discussed so…clinically, didn't want to hear about the bits and pieces and…parts.

The Ice Queen started—she hadn't noticed him. Her lip curled with irritation.

"No, by all means you may continue your breakfast." She turned her attention back to the impassive doctor. "At any rate, I lack the necessary data for an accurate replication—"

"Big surprise—the perfect woman can't measure up," Joker drawled into his coffeecup, green eyes trained on her profile. A tightening of the skin, her shoulders tensed—he'd hit a nerve. Huh. She refused to acknowledge his comment, resuming her attack on Chakwas.

"I need—"

"I'll provide what data I can," the older woman stood gracefully; always trying to contain the situation, she was. Her expression was perfectly calculated—mildly soothing, reasoned, understanding and accommodating—neutral to absorb whatever ire Lawson had to vent. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation en route?"

"By all means," Miranda's visage softened briefly with relief, but she threw a withering glare over her shoulder at Joker as she turned on her heel and stalked away, not waiting for the doctor.

Chakwas sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder. "That one needs some tempering. You shouldn't push people so."

"Be careful, Doc, she's ruthless," Joker looked up at her, unable to mask the surge of concern for the older woman. "She wanted to put a damn chip in the Commander's head."

"I don't think I could stop her if she tried, Jeff, but I'd never let them use Shepard as a tool." She nodded to him, resolve creasing her brow, and he looked away, grateful she'd understood his deeper fear. _**Better a dead hero than a puppet. You deserve better, Shepard.**_

"I'll be seeing you, Jeff." She left, following the icy chill left in Miranda's wake. Joker watched her go, surprised by an incongruous swell of contentment.

All his life, he'd welcomed solitude—ignoring those who didn't try to get closer, pushing away those who did. He'd accepted loneliness, even scorned the prospect of dependence, readily mocking those who seemed incomplete without another companion, flunkey, idiot. Consequently, what few real friendships he'd had seemed doomed to failure and often did end quite badly. Now, in the sea of unknown Cerberus uniforms, he had a familiar face—a friend to anchor himself to. He was glad not to be alone anymore.

He left the table, not bothering to clean it off, and went back to his quarters, activating his private terminal and looking up the information on the proposed surgery.


	9. Displacement

"Get up."

Jeff groaned and pulled the covers up over his head, squeezing his eyes shut firmly. A cruel hand shook his shoulder roughly.

"Up, Moreau. Now." It was Miranda's voice—irritation rising swiftly in her threatening tones.

"How'd you get in my room?" he muttered blearily, sitting up and mashing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Miranda drew back, satisfied he was awake, and began rummaging around his room, gathering the dirty clothes strewn on the floor and throwing them unceremoniously in his suitcase. She answered without looking at him.

"I have a master key and the codes to all of the doors in this facility." She straightened, a look of disgust on her face, a pair of dark green boxers held at arm's length. "God, you're a pig."

"No one asked you to manhandle my things," Joker drawled, grinning widely, "I get to see yours now, fair's fair." He didn't like the morning, but it never took long for him to wake up sufficiently to annoy the hell out of others.

She sneered and threw the offending article of clothing at his face, then strode to the door and lay her slim fingers on the knob. "Get ready and meet me in the hangar bay ASAP. Don't talk to anyone."

"What—" She left and he grimaced, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, hissing as his bare feet touched down on the cold tile floor. _**Shiiiiiiit**_**.** He scratched his jaw lazily, gaze roving around the room. He'd take his own sweet time, Miranda be da—

"Moreau—you better be moving your ass." The Aussie's voice issued from his inactive private terminal amidst a crush of static.

Joker growled and stood, kicking on a pair of reasonably clean pants and snatching a shirt from the foot of the bed. _**Bitch. This better not be a stupid drill**_**.** He finished packing, grumbling all the while about bossy, arrogant, curvaceous, nagging wenches.

It didn't take long—he'd never been a meticulous packer (despite his nigh-neurotic need for cleanliness in the cockpit) and he didn't have much to cram back into his suitcase. Only… he checked the unmade bed, lifting the covers and even getting down on his hands and knees to peer into the shadows beneath the frame. Where was his hat?

He looked in the Spartan closet, even more strikingly bare and cramped now that it was devoid of what few hangars and clothes he'd stored there. He shivered, not liking the sudden ominous feeling of hopelessness that stole over him_. __**It's just a damn closet, who gives a shit?**_

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't matter to this place—that for all his inner conflict about working with Cerberus, for all his good intentions or guilt-driven efforts, he'd be gone without a shred of evidence and he wouldn't be missed.

He decided he must've packed his hat already, or that Miranda had, and he hurriedly strapped on his leg braces and limped out of the room as fast as he could, lugging the suitcase behind.

…..

The walk to the hangar wasn't particularly long (as he'd adjusted to the facility in the past month, Joker had begun to suspect his tour had been purposefully circuitous and inefficient, but maybe he was just being paranoid again), but it was irritating. He glowered darkly at the gray pre-dawn sky. He usually got to sleep in a few hours longer. Stupid Lawson.

He passed a couple Cerberus cows, but didn't talk to them. Not, he assured himself firmly, because Miranda had commanded him not to, but because he preferred not to talk to the grunts.

He'd told Chakwas his nickname for the lowly lackeys a few days ago, but she didn't seem to get it.

"_C'mon!" he'd complained, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the man standing (safely out of hearing range) behind them. "Just look at 'em! Slow, expressionless, dull-eyed — they're cows! Stupid bovines, the lot of 'em."_

"_Jeff," she'd chided softly, a disapproving frown creasing her brows, "They're people. The fact that you do not know them does not give you the right to make cruel jokes and assumptions about them."_

"_Aw, you're no fun," he'd grumbled and tugged his hat low._

Jeff ran his free hand over his bare head. He felt so damn naked without his old cap. It may have sounded stupid, but it _smelled_ like the Normandy.

Yeah, yeah, rationally he knew that military ships didn't have distinctive smells — they all had the same equipment, they all cycled and recycled the same slightly stale air, they all served the same protein mush for meals, they all had the same military-issue uniforms, regulations, etc, but the Normandy had been different from the rest. She'd taken the best and the brightest from all reaches of the Alliance, the greatest the human race had to offer, and there was just this… vibrancy to everyone and every_thing_ aboard.

It was intangible, but undeniable — Anderson, Chakwas… Shepard. They'd all given the Normandy, already a spectacular bird, something _more._ So, yeah, he'd thought she'd had a special smell, and he'd never wash that damn standard-issue cap because, no matter how dirty it got, when he held it to his face, alone in the middle of the night, he could still smell home.

He arrived at the hangar bay, softly cursing the dull ache in his shins. He'd find it once Lawson's little drill was over. At least there wasn't an alarm bell or anything. He smirked, remembering the safety drills he'd endured at Arcturus primary school. Vrolik's had excused him from uselessly trooping out with the rest of the kids in their stupid lines, so whenever an alarm went off, he'd stuff his ears, steal the teacher's swivel chair, and play games on his Omnitool.

Maybe he could get Chakwas to write him a note. _Please excuse Jeffrey from your pointless displays of power in an evil terrorist organization's hierarchy on account of cosmic bad luck and rugged goodlooks._ Yeah, that'd go over well.

"Took you long enough!" Miranda appeared from the darkness within the hangar, looking uncharacteristically flustered. Her normally perfect hair was mussed and there was a sheen of sweat on her brow.

Joker bowed mockingly. "Forgive me, my queen. The chariot had a flat."

She sneered but her eyes were distracted, flicking away behind him. He turned, following her gaze, but saw only the unbroken gray-blue cast of the clouds that stretched from horizon to horizon.

"Go to the Nightwing and initiate take-off sequences," she ordered, pushing past him. "I don't have time for questions now, but I'll fill you in later. Let only Jacob, Wilson, Chakwas, and myself aboard, do you understand?"

_**What the hell?**_ Joker frowned, confused. He opened his mouth, but she turned and there was something in her eyes that scared him. He went on anyway. "I don't—"

"Please." Miranda's voice was low, soft. There was no trace of arrogance, just quiet desperation.

Joker nodded numbly and watched her walk swiftly away, back up the path he'd just limped down.

Something was very wrong.

He shook his head and hobbled into the hangar, moving as fast as he dared. Insolent or no, he could recognize an order that needed to be followed. He wouldn't waste time debating anything that had the Ice Queen so obviously worried.

Even seeing the elegant curve of the Nightwing's massive hull sent only an echo of joy thrilling up his spine. The blue-black metal, gleaming sinisterly in the gloom, made him think of a predator, crouching in anticipation above the oblivious prey.

He swallowed and opened the access panel, punched in the code Miranda had given him, activated the gangway, and scurried up and into the cockpit. The blue consoles flickered to life and his fingers danced across holographic keyboards as he lost himself in the many and minute tasks required for take-off. After a moment's hesitation, he closed the hatch.

Miranda was scared and she'd only wanted certain people aboard. There had to be a good reason, right? The engines hummed as he engaged their warm-up protocols and sub-routines, the low bass thrum almost obscuring the click of the ship's comm.

"It's Wilson—let me in!" The man's voice was petulant, demanding. Joker mutely complied.

He'd met Dr. Wilson a few days after his arrival and had taken an instant and intense dislike to him. The man was arrogant, petty, greedy, and somehow always seemed to be checking over his shoulder, as if he thought he was being watched. _**Or as if he was afraid of getting caught doing something he shouldn't.**_ He didn't like to think about that man being alone with… He didn't think Wilson should be working on Shepard.

Joker shook his head sharply. _**Don't. Just 'cause Miranda's paranoid—**_

"I'm in. Shut the hatch." Wilson's voice, curiously strained, drifted in from the passenger section. Joker swiveled his chair, craning his neck to get a look at the other man. Wilson was struggling under a load of what could only be medical equipment — all sterile white and silver chrome, angles and curves. Wilson wobbled dangerously.

"Need a hand?" Joker asked flatly. He had no intention of helping, but social etiquette demanded he say _something._

Thankfully, Wilson stabilized himself and set the mass of glass, plastic, tubing, and wiring down on the floor by the port window. He shot an imperious glance over his shoulder at the pilot. "Shut the hatch — the only ones allowed in are—"

"Give it a rest, Wilson," Jacob Taylor's even tones filtered in from the gangway and the man stepped into Joker's field of vision, easily carrying twice the equipment as Wilson. He lay his load carefully down on one of the seats, then turned to arrange Wilson's untidy pile into a more space-efficient stack. He looked up when he'd finished, smiling politely to Jeff before facing Wilson again.

"A good three-quarters of the facility is still asleep and the first of the supply flights isn't scheduled until oh-nine-hundred. I doubt we'll have a mob clamoring to come aboard."

"Do you know what's going on?" Joker fought to keep the suspicion out of his voice. He and Jacob hadn't exactly become friends but over the past month, they'd established a sizable level of mutual respect.

"No more than you, sorry."

Wilson crossed his arms, nostrils flaring in irritation. "I hate being kept in the dark."

Taylor shrugged, sitting down casually. "Miranda just told me to trust her. She'll tell us when she's ready."

Joker arched an eyebrow but didn't comment. The fact that she'd kept her boyfriend blind was surprising and unsettling. And what did she want with all the medical equipment?

Wheels rattled on the gangway, and Wilson and Taylor started with surprise.

"Moreau — take us into orbit." Miranda rushed up the stairs, blocking his view of the passenger section with her adjective-defying figure. He'd glimpsed Chakwas, pushing something — "Now."

"Yessir," he snapped, rolling his eyes. Flick, switch, engage — he eased the Nightwing up and out the open bay doors, feeling the familiar tremor of joy, of freedom, quiver in his heart. Every takeoff — it never failed. But he was still pissed and confused; the happiness was short-lived.

Miranda settled into the copilot's chair, eyes scanning the clouded sky.

"Once we break atmosphere, I'd like you to fly us to the nearest Mass Relay and… " she activated her Omnitool, fingers deftly sifting through holographic screens, " …take us to these coordinates." He nodded curtly, resisting the urge to look back to the passenger section.

"What's going on?"

Blue-gray eyes were fixated on the shrouds of cloud they were cutting through.

"Not yet. Make the jump and I'll explain everything."

He bit his lip, smothering a spike of irritation.

The Nightwing sped through the atmosphere, a brief sunburst flickering against her windshield as she left the planet and entered the silence of space.

A jet black field, dotted with miniscule white pinprick stars — beautiful, unbroken, eternal. Jeff shivered and increased the Nightwing's speed. This system had one planet: Avis. Avis had three moons — all barely large enough to escape satellite classification. This sector of space was nearly empty — one of the less popular areas in the Terminus systems — and there was little to distract from the sheer _size_ of space. It didn't bother him… unless he thought about it. Then it scared the shi—

_**There we go**_. The relay loomed ahead, and he punched in Lawson's coordinates, sneaking a glance at her face. She was pale, her mouth pressed to a nearly invisible line, her fingers clutching at the dash with a desperate intensity. Her eyes were wild.

In that split second, before the relay caught them and sent them hurtling to god-knows-where, Joker knew. He knew what Chakwas had been pushing aboard the Nightwing, he knew he'd never see his hat again, and he knew that all those people he'd left at the Cerberus facility, all those bland, stupid cows, were going to die.

Then they made the jump and the blue waves of FTL washed over the Nightwing's cold, unfeeling hull.

….

Miranda leaned back and closed her eyes—relief, fatigue, regret? Jeff didn't know. He didn't want to—he didn't want to understand this woman. Wilson's voice rose in complaint behind them, and her blue-gray eyes slid open wearily.

"Where are we going? Why the secrecy? I'm an important member of this project, and I deserve to know what's going on!"

Lawson stood and walked stiffly down the steps to the level of the passenger compartment. Jeff swiveled his chair to watch. His eyes were drawn to the simple gurney in the middle of the area, to the white shroud-covered form atop it. He closed them as Miranda spoke.

"Several hours ago, I received news of an impending Collector attack on the planet Avis and its moons."

Chakwas let out a small gasp but Miranda continued. "This information came to me directly from the Illusive Man. He believes that our facility, not the Avis colony, was the focus of the attack."

Joker opened his eyes, studied the woman's back. Her spine was straight, head held proudly aloft, hands clasped behind her back. A good little soldier, reciting the mission report. He squinted. Her hands were trembling.

"All those people…" Chakwas whispered, stunned.

"Why didn't you warn the others?" cried Jacob. Jeff couldn't see his face, but could imagine the look of outraged horror. In some respects, he was a lot like the Commander. _**Mission first, people always.**_

"I — The Illusive Man believes this attack was planned by the Shadow Broker. They would be expecting to find a fully staffed Cerberus facility. If they discovered it recently evacuated, they would know we had ways of predicting attacks."

Chakwas was very quiet. "All those people… "

"Dammit, Miri!" Jacob yelled, his voice cracking, "The colony, those people — they _mattered_!"

"The project takes top priority." Miranda sounded distant, hollow, "Those people were… it was for the best."

"They were _expendable_, it that it? Not _important_ enough? You could've at least warned them!"

Lawson's hands clenched into fists and her voice strengthened. "To do so would have wasted a powerful advantage, our only advantage. Lazarus cell remains intact. The project can continue. Cerberus is still strong."

Jacob's voice went low and menacingly soft. "When your daddy designed you, he made one hell of a woman. The only problem? He forgot your heart."

Miranda's shoulders tensed. The ship was dead quiet. Joker thought for sure that she would scream at Taylor, or hit him, or _something_, but she turned and walked silently back to the seat beside him. Just before she turned her face away, he saw a single shining tear course down her smooth cheek.

Wilson muttered something Joker couldn't make out, and the three in the passenger section began talking quietly amongst themselves, but he was unable to shake the image of that tear, falling without a sound, unnoticed and unmarked by anyone else. Lawson, he realized, was like him. She spent so much time internalizing everything; she didn't know how to express things… _**The Ice Queen doesn't want your pity.**_

Jeff fixed his attention on the blue ripples, painfully aware of Miranda's silence.

"So, ah, where are we going?" he asked when he couldn't take it anymore.

"There's a small space station with adequate facilities where we can resume the project." Miranda's voice never wavered.

"Ah. A super-secret base, I take it?" He toggled a switch absently, adjusting a slight list in their flight.

"Of course." He looked at her sidelong; she'd wiped the tear away and was now smiling, eyes hard, staring out the window. "That's how we like things at Cerberus. Secret. Information distributed on a need-to-know basis."

"Look, I… you didn't _need_ Taylor, you didn't _need_ Chakwas," he blurted, "Hell, you didn't even _need_ me. You saved them. Us. You're not… you're not heartless."

She looked at him, eyes unfathomable.

"Well," he got up, suddenly uncomfortable, "I gotta take a piss."

She didn't say anything, didn't smile, and he felt her eyes on the back of his head as he carefully went down the stairs. _**I'm not like that, I'm not like her.**_

He paused at the foot of the stairs, his vision dominated by the still figure on the gurney, by the body beneath the shroud. _**Commander, I… I'm sorry.**_ He saw his hand reach out to the edge of the cloth, as if he had no control over the movement. He just knew he needed her now, needed the woman who always knew what to do, what to think.

"Jeff." Chakwas leaned forward in her seat, eyes firm. He stopped. She shook her head slowly. "Not yet. You can't see her now."

Joker swallowed, refusing to think about what Shepard must look like under the cloth for Chakwas to — _**Stop.**_ He pulled his hand back, refusing to look at the other men in the passenger area.

Chakwas stood and gently led him down a corridor, her hands warm on his shoulders. He realized he was shaking.

"Soon. You'll get to talk to her in a few months, maybe see her in a week. I know it's hard, I know it's scary to think of her like… like this, but believe me, now is not the time."

He took a deep shuddering breath, focusing on the familiar sound of her voice.

"Shepard would've saved those people. She would've tried to warn them… she would've done _something_…"

"Jeff — she would be glad that you're alive. She wouldn't blame you for following orders, for surviving." Chakwas looked incredibly tired. "I miss her, too. I wish… I wish we'd never been sent on that stupid patrol."

"Me too." They stood quietly for what felt like a long time, then Chakwas sniffed and turned back to the passenger compartment.

"Hey Doc," he called after her. She stopped but didn't face him.

"Yes?"

"Let's… let's stay together, okay? Just… in case something like this…" He didn't finish, he didn't need to. She was already nodding.

He sighed and continued down the hall, looking for the head.

**...**

**A/N: Special thanks to Liege Lord for setting me straight about the canon location of the Lazarus project. :)**

**Please review!**


	10. Dreaming in the Dark

Joker awoke with a painful start, gasping in the dark. The sheets, soaked through with sweat, clung unpleasantly to his chest and stomach, catching on the heavy metal leg restraints.

"Sh-shit!" He yelled, bringing his hands up to his head, trying in vain to see his palms in the blackness of the room that had been his prison for seven weeks now. _**No blood, there's no blood.**_ God, it had been so real. He let them drop to his sides and stared blankly up at the ceiling.

"Shit," he whispered brokenly. He couldn't see the white ceramic tiles through the oppressive darkness, but he knew there were one thousand, two hundred, and eighty-four. He'd counted them. Twice.

His legs ached. That was good — aching was better than that incessant _itch_ that had plagued him for the first three days. Damn, that had been awful.

He'd asked for the surgery as soon as he'd landed the Nightwing in Lawson's secret base or whatever. He was done being useless without an excuse.

He hadn't reckoned on the recovery.

Oh, the surgery itself hadn't been so bad. Chakwas and Lawson had talked him through it before, going over every minute detail about osteoblasts and osteoclasts and alloys and time-release medigel capsules and structural integrity and on and on until sinking into an anesthetic –induced stupor had been a freaking _relief_. Afterwards, Miranda had assured him that he hadn't been implanted with a mind-control chip. He'd taken her word for it; if Cerberus wanted a chip in him, they'd damn well get it in — there wasn't much he could do. So the surgery itself had been pretty much uneventful.

But the recovery…

He'd thought there was nothing to do at the old facility, but _this_… the interminable hours of sheer _nothing _— nothing to do but count the ceiling tiles.

_**Or go mad**_, he thought darkly. There's a nice tradition — the crazy pilot with the hat. Except the hat's gone. The uniform, the hat, the ship, the Commander, the Alliance — your old life is gone.

_**I'll get a new hat**_, he thought forcefully, trying to smother the depressing ideas and whispers that often tormented him in the middle of the night. _**Yeah, a new hat and maybe a leather jacket too**_. His shins ached and he clenched his fists. _**Just put a three-headed Chihuahua on the back and I'll be set.**_

A blinding light stabbed into the room as someone cracked open the old-fashioned swing-door. He squinted painfully.

"Jeff?" Chakwas's voice could barely be called a whisper. "Are you awake?"

He didn't bother feigning sleep: doctors and mothers could always tell when you were faking, and Chakwas was something of both. _**Shit!**_ He remembered he'd forgotten to message his mom — he'd sworn to himself he would as soon as he'd gotten out of surgery… oh well, Chakwas clearly had something on her mind.

"What's up?" He propped himself up to a sitting position, staring at her gilded shadow. Chakwas shifted her weight uncertainly, swaying back and forth ever so slightly. She didn't know if she could tell him.

Oh god, what if something was wrong? What if something was really _mayday-call-the-brass-and-bite-the-bullet_ wrong? _**The chip.**_ His stomach clenched. _**They put the fucking**_—

"She's alive," Chakwas blurted, her voice tremulous with mixed emotions. Fear, joy, trepidation, disbelief — Joker felt them echo in his own heart.

"She… "

"They've finished all of her basic functions, repaired her body, and put her in a medically induced coma." The doctor's words tumbled out in a rush and washed over his suddenly ringing ears.

His commander was alive. Alive — warm, breathing, alive!

_Large eyes, dark chocolate brown, smiled down at him, the woman they belonged to leaned over his chair, turning her gaze to check his calculations. He'd found himself staring at the vulnerable neck, her skin pale over the smooth play of muscle — she struck him then as _human _— not some glorious soldier-commander, not some untouchable paragon of virtue, but a _person_._

_Alive, strong, brave — yes, but fragile too. Impermanent. It scared him._

"Can I… when can I see her?" He had a hard time asking the simple question, the rough words rasping in his suddenly dry throat.

"For now, Lawson has restricted access to her room to the primary operating staff, but," her voice changed — she was smiling, "I'd imagine as soon as your legs have recovered."

"Oh yeah," he fell back on the bed with a petulant sigh. "I forgot for one second."

Chakwas' shadow moved closer, laying a hand, invisible save for its warmth, on the small expanse of shin left bare between the metal braces. He flinched at the unexpected contact, but was grateful for the gesture.

"How do you feel?" She asked, and he could picture her familiar concerned frown.

_**Bored. Lonely.**_

"I'm fine. Y'know, all things considered."

_**Bitter. Scared pissless.**_

Chakwas sat carefully on the edge of his bed, folding her arms and staring contemplatively at the vibrant gash of light cut into the black. Her hair fell in its customary curtain, its austere sheet hiding her profile.

"I'm worried, Jeff." She sounded so old, so old and tired. "You don't see what's going on in this… this place, but I do. Miranda has devoted herself to Shepard — there's nothing else she talks about. That Wilson has been acting oddly — always sneering and smirking and he's stopped complaining about the pay. Sometimes… sometimes I think I hear him talking to himself. And Taylor…"

She shook her head slowly. "Jacob tried to fix things with Miranda but she wouldn't hear him out and now… it's like he's withdrawn any trace of interest, of personality, of humanity within himself and he doesn't talk to anyone."

Joker frowned in the darkness. He could hear the pointed melancholy in her voice—probably unconscious. She knew he didn't get on with people, knew he didn't trust easily… he wasn't about to step into any Cerberus drama, much less when the two people involved were so obviously alpha- types—perfect ideals of humanity. If she expected him to talk to either of them, she'd be disappointed. Joker was a private man—he'd respect the private pains and problems of others if they afforded him the same respect. Moreover, he didn't really know Taylor, wasn't sure he even liked the guy, and he sure as hell didn't understand Miranda.

Shit, he didn't know the first thing about relationships anyways. _**If Shepard ever—**_

"Well, I'll still be here," he said brightly, forcing a grin she couldn't see, "I'm not going anywhere."

She sniffed. "I know."

She ducked her head, one hand surreptitiously rubbing at her eyes.

_**Aw shit. **_He shifted uncomfortably, wracking his brain for something to say. She'd just shared her fear with him — with _him_, for Pete's sakes — and he wouldn't let her flail in the dark.

"I have these… dreams."

"Dreams?" She straightened, turning pointlessly to regard his shape in the blackness.

He regretted this — she didn't need to know about his stupid nightmares. "It's nothing, I um, just don't sleep too good."

He could hear the smile in her voice. "Too _well_, Jeff. Someone as smart as you should be more aware of the basic tenets of grammar."

Joker snorted. He looked into the blinding strip of light, letting it burn his aching eyes. _**Smart.**_

"Do you… want to talk about them?" Her hesitation was not borne of discomfort — she was trying to be gentle, polite. Like always.

He opened his mouth to say no, but — "I dream about her. About killing her."

Chakwas didn't say anything and he began to sweat, a rising panic clutching his heart. "I — I don't want to! Hell, I… she was my friend and I respected her an' all, but… every night since the surgery…" _**You're rambling, dumbass. Stop acting like a little —**_ "I'm not… losin' it am I? I mean, shit —"

"It's okay, Jeff," the doctor's voice was firm but soothing. She found his hand and held it briefly. "It's normal."

_**Normal?**_

"How the hell is this normal?" Joker laughed, not even knowing why he did so. "I. Kill. Her."

"You're on a lot of medications — antibiotics, painkillers, stimulants to prevent muscle atrophy, and so forth. Frankly, I'd be surprised if your dreams _weren't_ of the… unusual variety."

"Oh." Blame it on the drugs? But what if they didn't stop once he'd 'recovered'? Why a recurring theme? _**Why Shepard?**_ He trailed the narrow wedge of light across the immaculate floor, remembering suddenly the overpowering stench of antiseptic and bleach that had been his first conscious sensation after the operation.

"Coupled with current events and…" Chakwas paused. "Did you… see someone after the attack?"

"See…?" His mind went south and he flushed when he realized she meant a shrink. "Yeah, just the guy the Alliance referred us all to."

"Do you—"

"I'm not talking to any shithead who wants to tell me what I should think." He felt a sick heat prick at his neck as rage and hate rose like a crescendo. The scarred visage of Admiral Ghota leered in his mind's eye. _…the little slut..._ _**Fuck him.**_

Chakwas seemed to shrink. _**Oh. Oh shit.**_ He opened his mouth to say something, but she stood decisively, straightening her tunic.

"I, um, I'll let you know if there is any progress with the Commander."

"Yeah… thanks." He watched her leave — a slim figure of black against the blinding gold light, shutting the door gently behind her, leaving him alone and in the dark again.

His legs ached.


	11. Scars and New Faces

They looked unremarkable. Skinny, pale beneath the thin lines of black-brown hair. He stooped carefully, fingertips grazing his shins, feeling for the — there.

Joker sat back on the bed, pulling his leg up onto his lap, examining the white raised scars that cut geometric patterns into flesh that was once whole. _**There's so many.**_ He swallowed, not wanting to think about how—

"Well?" He looked up to see Operative Lawson standing in his doorway. Her arms were folded across her chest, one hip resting against the frame. She wore her customary white-and-black catsuit and her porcelain face seemed oddly fitting in this too-white sterile room.

"Well what?" He put his leg down, bracing his feet gingerly against the floor, testing the strength of Cerberus science. The stupid hospital gown pulled at his thighs.

"How do they feel?" She nodded towards his legs, level blue eyes betraying nothing more than a cold medical interest.

"Not bad." He got up and took a lurching step — damn, his shoulders still drew uneven. _**Shit, I still look — **_he stifled a wave of frustration and self-hatred. The surgery was on his damn legs, he shouldn't have expected it to affect anything else.

"I'm not runnin' any races, but…" He limped a little further, trying to feel _something_. He strained his senses, waiting for the shooting pain that usually — _**no pain.**_ He grinned suddenly, a lightheaded elation fluttering his heart. _**There's no pain.**_

Miranda smiled and pushed off the doorframe. She sauntered closer, eyes flicking approvingly up and down his legs.

"Congratulations, Moreau. You have your legs back."

"This… this was never mine." Jeff walked to the wall, his strides more confident, something white-hot glowing in his gut. He felt stronger, he felt like he could walk forever. He stopped in front of her, still smiling.

"It's yours now." Her eyes were hard and he felt a little of that fierce happiness wither. She nodded curtly, glossy black locks shining in the fluorescent light. "Enjoy."

Miranda spun about on one black heel and clicked out of the room.

Her message was clear: Cerberus gave you this. _**And they could damn well take it away, too.**_ His short-lived enthusiasm dimmed.

Chakwas was right — Miranda was worse.

He shivered, feeling exposed in the flimsy hospital gown, and started looking for his clothes.

…..

It was just a door. A simple door — like any of the thousands he'd walked through. _**Nothing special,**_ he told himself, wiping his sweating palms on the Cerberus-issue black pants. _**Nothing special.**_

Except beyond that door, in that cold sterile operating room… _**Shepard**_.

_**Alive.**_ His Commander…

He remembered his dream and almost turned away, remembered the images — her blood bright on his hands, her brown eyes glassy and dull — remembered the thousands of different, sick permutations his drug-addled brain had conjured, the many incarnations of that simple, terrible guilt: you killed her.

He felt himself slipping again and rehashed the desperate mantra he'd invented as a defense against his own psyche. _**It came too quickly, there was nothing I could do. We didn't have the armor, the speed, the maneuverability — that was a fight the Normandy couldn't win.**_ He clenched the fingers that had failed him._** I stalled it, let the crew go, bought them time.**_

He knew that if he'd gone to the pods when ordered, the Collector monstrosity would've sliced and diced his baby and leisurely finished off the defenseless escape pods. He knew he'd been too close to the planet for an FTL jump — the gravity swell would've torn the Normandy apart. He knew he'd done everything he could.

He knew it hadn't been enough.

"You should've left me to die," he whispered to the door, placing a palm against the unfeeling metal. _**But you didn't.**_ The thought made him straighten his back, lift his chin. _**You didn't abandon me and I didn't even go to your funeral now. **_

She was alive.

He slapped the entrance console before he could lose his nerve. Miranda had said they'd add his 'print to the access—

It hissed open, revealing a stark white room like the one he'd been confined to for the last eternity. Except the Shepard suite had more machines. Hulking metal giants crouched menacingly in the corners of the room, blinking lights — red, white, yellow, and always that ugly Cerberus orange — and whirring or humming or clicking or beeping. Golden duragel monitors hung suspended like great panes of glowing glass, arranged in tight cascades about the workstation and… his throat tightened.

She lay on an elevated operating table, tubes and IV cords snaking beneath the simple white sheet that covered her body in a modest-yet-visibly inadequate drape.

_**Commander.**_ Tears burned at his eyes as he approached her numbly. She looked so frail, so small, so…

"Oh god!" He drew back in horror, his hip jarring painfully against the workstation. He heard the staccato clatter as surgical instruments fell to the floor, but only distantly — he couldn't tear his gaze from the lines that shattered Shepard's skin. _**Those scars…**_

Lines of fire were carved into her skin, seemingly random lacerations of red and gold that glowed balefully from the wan flesh of her still face, her slender neck, her exposed shoulders and collarbones. He couldn't help following a thick gash that ran from the hollow of the base of her neck, down diagonally to the swell of her breast, disappearing beneath the thin cloth — he pulled his gaze away to where the white ended, to the surprisingly graceful ankles. Flaming slashes marred every inch of visible skin.

"What the hell have they done to you?" He felt a wave of pity and remorse overwhelm the initial flood of revulsion. She was his Commander — for now and forever. He was responsible for this… he hadn't done the cutting, hadn't brought her to Cerberus, but if he'd just… no. He knew who she was — who she had been and Senna Shepard wouldn't blame him for this anymore than she would for her death. _**She wouldn't, but she should.**_

He shook his head, running through the litany again.

"What have they done to you?" he repeated softly, brushing her mutilated cheek with the back of his hand. She was warm.

_**I'm not leaving you.**_

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Wilson's gruff voice rang out sharply from behind Jeff and he pulled his hand back like he'd been burned, panic spiking, his cheeks stinging.

The pilot turned to see the other man stump in, scowling as he bent to gather the fallen surgical tools. "Oh, wanted to see her, eh? I don't blame ya — it's not everyday you see somethin' like that."

"Ex-squeeze me?" Joker glared at the older man. He shifted to stand defensively between Shepard and Wilson. "What do you mean by 'something like that'?"

Wilson smirked, flicking a hand over to indicate the table. "That. It's like that old Earth book… Frankenstein, I think it was."

"Her," spat Joker, his hands clenched into fists, "_Her _— not _that_. She's a fucking person — not your pet experiment." He was intensely conscious of the blood rushing in his veins, of the space his body occupied, of the distance between him and that bastard scientist.

Wilson sneered but held his hands up, "Sorry. I just get used to the work, is all. Not like I'm getting any help, that's for damn sure."

Jeff forced himself to relax, feeling the tenseness in his shoulders ease. "I thought Miranda —"

"Yeah right!" Wilson scoffed, dumping the delicate yet extremely sharp-looking instruments on the workstation's scuffed surface. "The Ice Queen doesn't do shit but stare and complain. She knows what she wants, but she's got no idea about the technical details."

_**I thought I came up with that.**_ Joker grimaced, finding the idea that his thought-process had anything in common with Wilson's, and resolved to stop — "Wait, she doesn't… she doesn't operate?"

"Hell no," the cantankerous man pushed past Joker, going to Shepard's side. He squinted up at an IV gauge, adjusting the drip frequency ever so slightly. "The woman just stands over my shoulder, _watching_ me and harping about '_you're not cutting right, we need more medigel, tighten those sutures'_, honestly, that bitch is such a pain."

Joker swallowed. He'd stopped listening at "cutting" but he'd gotten the gist of it. Now, he was no Miranda fan, but he'd been in the military long enough to have an instinctive respect for superior officers. Wilson was flagrantly disrespectful, borderline sexist, and it went against the grain of Joker's training and the basic chivalry his mother had drilled into his brain.

Wilson bent over Shepard's face, opening one of her eyes and checking her pupils. "You'd think I'd get a little thanks once in a while, but _no_, nothing I do is good enough. Not even when I reconstructed every pericardial rib on the—"

"So, um, why are her scars all… lava-y?" Joker interrupted, glancing away at the workbench, his gaze falling on the gleaming blades. Straight, curved, pronged, serrated — he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Oh — that's just the artificial subcutaneous layer we cultivated." Joker heard the rush of the sheet being pulled back, felt a gust of air on the nape of his neck. _**Don't turn around, don't you turn around.**_ He gripped the cold metal edge of the workbench's scuffed surface.

Wilson continued blithely. "It's got all the essential properties of actual tissue and it produced genuine human skin cells. It'll age and replicate in the same manner as real skin would and eventually it'll breakdown and be dissolved into her bloodstream."

"Oh. Right."

"The scarring effect is because I had to put it on in sections, depending on whether I was finished with the underlying bone, muscular tissue, and so forth. It should fade after a while and she'll be as pretty as that Richards woman."

Joker's knuckles creaked and he fought down another surge of anger, resisting the urge to turn and yell at the other man. "I, uh, I better go."

"Whatever."

Joker didn't like leaving, didn't like deserting his Commander — especially alone with Wilson — but he couldn't stand to stay. He walked away, limping tightly, frustration and pain burning his heart.

…..

His new room was wonderful, amazing, really… no, it looked exactly like his old one. He blew a sigh, rolling his green eyes from blank wall to blank wall. Well… this would be the epitome of excitement. Nothing, not even a camera, although they probably did have some kind of bug that he couldn't see. The bed even felt the same — a lump right at the center of his spine. He wiggled a bit.

"You guys _really_ need a new decorator," he drawled, putting an arm across his eyes and crossing his legs. "I mean, stark monochromatic is _sooo_ early twenty-first century. It practically screams unoriginality. At least throw in a little chrome — hey, how 'bout that fugly orange you guys are so —"

His door hissed open and a slender woman practically skipped into his room.

"Um. Hi?" He felt his cheeks sting. _**Smooth. Real smooth. Girl walks in on you talkin' interior decorating to yourself.**_ She didn't look disturbed, though, actually kinda the opposite. Joker sat up, propping his elbows on his knees, eyeing her warily.

"Good morning!" She smiled brightly, green eyes glittering. She stuck out her hand with such earnest vigor that her short reddish hair flounced. "I'm Kelly Chambers — I've been assigned to the Lazarus cell."

"Hey." He took her hand and shook, giving her that special smile he reserved for people that were overly friendly. The one that said '_possibly mentally unstable'_. "Jeff Moreau."

"Oh, you're the pilot!" Her eyes widened but there was no surprise in them. "Wow, it's an honor to meet you — I've been reading up on the Normandy and her exploits so… you _actually_ worked with Shepard!"

Joker leaned back, folding his arms. _**She's only acting like a ditz.**_ "Yeah, what's it to you?"

Chambers shook her head, patting the air as if to calm him. "No, no, I just — I'm just envious. From all that I've heard, she was a wonderful person. I'm _so_ looking forward to working with her!"

He snorted. "You're Cerberus. We won't be working together for long, if ya get my drift." She should just go, leave him alone. _**Why the hell are you in my room?**_

"Why not?" Kelly didn't seem to get the hint — she danced over to sit on the end of his bed and he stiffened in surprise. "I've heard she's quiet openminded."

He wasn't sure how to take that, then decided not to over-interpret. "She is. But not with Cerberus."

"Really? Why?" Kelly's eyes were impossibly wide — exaggeratedly innocent but he didn't think she was faking. Miranda had known, Jacob had known, why didn't she? Regardless, it was personal to Shepard, it was her pain — he wouldn't share what wasn't his to give.

"If you really don't know you can ask her when she wakes up." _**Now skedaddle, kid.**_ He drew his legs up onto the bed and stretched out, his calf pressing pointedly against her ass. Thankfully, she wasn't completely dense.

"Okay, well… it was nice meeting you." She stood, a distinctly deflated air to the set of her shoulders. _**Aw… shit…**_ He didn't enjoy making people sad — he preferred to piss them off, and only when they deserved it. Besides…

"So, what are you here for anyway?" He shifted to his side, tried to adopt a more accommodating expression. She stopped with a hand delicately on the wall, grinning apologetically.

"Oh, I'm the station's psychiatrist."

_**Fuck.**_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, Kelly's here! Anyway hope you liked this one. Please review! I'm close to wrapping this up unless there's something more any of you wanted to "know". :)**


	12. A Debt

"Hello?" The voice on the other end was male, maybe middle-aged, and had an air of suspicious distraction.

Jeff frowned. "Is this Anne-Marie Moreau's transmission sequence?" He was _sure_ he'd keyed it in correctly.

The bright amber duragel screen hummed softly, the light it cast bathed his plain room in a dull orange.

The silence on the other side was beginning to be eerie, and Joker scowled, moving to disconnect. _**If it's a wrong number, just **_**say**_** so, don't keep me—**_

"Who is this?" The man's voice had deepened—serious. Joker had his full attention.

"Jeff Moreau. I'm her son." He folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. "Has she changed addresses?"

There was another pause, this time with a palpable sense of awkward reluctance. Then, "Mr. Moreau, my name is Elias Hastings. I'm sorry to tell you this, but your mother passed away three days ago."

"What?" Jeff felt his arms slip. The orange screen seemed to grow, filling his field of vision until all he could see was the soft glow. His ears were suddenly muffled. "Look, just give me the contact information for wherever—"

"I'm sorry, sir, your mother is dead."

There was a high-pitched whine building in his ears now, and he felt a curious void around…he tried to place it, failed, and grew frustrated. Who the hell was this Hastings jerk?

"Okay, buddy, wrong number. I'm hanging up." He reached forward.

"Jeffrey Benjamin Moreau? Born 2155? You were a pilot for the Alliance, right?" The man spoke quickly.

He felt something very cold and heavy fill the void within him.

"That's me," he said quietly.

"Mr. Moreau, I am the executive in charge of your mother's estate. I've actually been trying to contact you for some time now. I know you need to grieve for your mother, but we have some important financial and legal matters to—"

The man's voice was irritating—ceaseless waves of a slightly nasal tenor. It was like scratching the same spot on your arm over and over until the skin turned red and raw.

"Can you—can you just stop?" Jeff rubbed at his temples. "I need…I need to…" What?

The man fell respectfully silent, letting Moreau work things out for a moment.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, blocking out the ugly orange, the impersonal blank walls of his Cerberus room.

He took a deep breath.

"What do you need from me?"

"If it's at all possible, it would be best for you to come here and we could have the whole procedure completed quickly and efficiently. It would take a week at most." Hasting's voice was softer now, familiar pity in the tone.

"Come to Elysium?" The words were mechanical, hollow.

"That would be ideal. Why don't you take some time to think about it and call me back?"

Think. Call him back. Joker blinked slowly. "Yeah. Alright."

"Very well. And Mr. Moreau?"

"Yes?" Soft streams of data, numbers and figures, rippled across the readout. Meaningless.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Hastings ended the transmission.

Joker watched the wavering audiometer flatline. He didn't move to shut down the terminal.

His loss.

He tried to feel grief, tried to summon the appropriate response, but he felt hollow. Numb.

She was dead. She was dead and he'd never talk to her again, never get the chance to say that he really _did_ love her, never get to apologize for last time—_**Oh god.**_ Tears burned as he remembered how he'd cut the transmission on her.

_Why_ hadn't he called earlier? He'd meant to…_ three days ago…_ Jeff let out a shuddering breath.

She was dead. There was no going back. At least with Shepard he was getting another chance, but the Illusive Man wouldn't spend his time and money resurrecting an old woman who wasn't all that important to the galaxy.

_**She was important to me.**_ The sadness flooded him then, bowing his shoulders and forcing streams of hot tears from his eyes. He remembered his childhood on the Arcturus Station, coming home from jeers at school to a warm hug and soft words. He remembered the joy that had radiated from her face when he'd told her he'd been accepted into Flight School, and the pride that lifted the chin of a mechanic's daughter when her son was given the stars.

She was always there, he realized. She was a constant in his life—he didn't keep in contact, but he _knew_ she was there. Not anymore.

He wiped at his face roughly with the heels of his hands, biting his tongue.

He never made noise when he cried, never howled or choked or sobbed. It was defensive: if you stayed quiet, maybe no one would notice. _Do your work and keep your head down_ had been his philosophy through the arduous and often unbearable years at the Flight Academy.

Jeff looked around the bare room. _**Maybe I didn't want them to notice because I didn't want them to care.**_ He could count on his hand the number of close friends he'd had throughout his life, the ones who didn't care about his disease, and he'd hurt them all, one way or another.

He'd even hurt his mom. He hadn't been there for her, hadn't called, hadn't visited… he'd been too absorbed in his work, in himself.

_Come to Elysium._

He couldn't reverse time, couldn't go back and spend the time with her that he should have, but he could at least give her a decent funeral. Jeff straightened, feeling that small vulnerable part of himself recede, replaced by resolve. He'd go and talk to that Hastings guy, and make sure—

His door flew open and an irate Miranda rushed in, black hair seething around her shoulders.

"What the hell were you doing? Who gave you permission to make a transmission?" She snarled, gray-blue eyes snapping. One quivering finger pointed accusingly at his still-active terminal.

"I didn't know there was a problem." Joker felt only a dull pulse of trepidation at Lawson's fury,; he found the lines of his empty hands, lying open in his lap, of far more interest.

"Of course there's a bloody problem! We're in a sector of empty space — a secret facility, for godsakes! You can't just send unencrypted transmissions—"

"My mom's dead," he said flatly, silencing her. "I just found out."

On the edge of his vision, Miranda stopped her advance, her arm falling to her side.

"I'm sorry about the transmission," he continued, still looking down. "If it's any consolation… it won't happen again."

"Moreau…" Her voice had lost its fire, the Australian accent softened. "I'm sorry."

He glanced to the corner of the room, trying to hold back the swell of grief that had suddenly attacked him. He cleared his throat. "I'll um, I'll need to go to Elysium for a couple days. Goddamn lawyers…" He didn't have the energy to finish.

"Elysium?" The sympathy ebbed slightly, and he could practically hear her automated refusal: _The Illusive Man has mandated no one leave the station — _"Very well."

He looked up at her in surprise, forgetting his shame of the evidence of his pain, still damp on his cheeks. "You're sure? There's no regulation you're going to quote, no rule you're gonna cite?"

She dropped her gaze to her black boots, the reflective tops a marked contrast to the dull gray floor. "Technically, you are not sanctioned to leave the surveillance of Cerberus personnel…"

He snorted, a bitter grin gathering at the reestablishment of roles. "Rethinking your charity?"

She glared at him. "You can go. But you have to take Yeoman Chambers with you."

"What? Why?" He balked instinctively at the notion of the chipper shrink accompanying him on such a personal errand.

"That way I can tell the Illusive Man that you remain under the surveillance of a loyal Cerberus operative." She smirked slightly, but Joker could see a resignation in her eyes. She had always coveted the attention of the big cheese — by helping Jeff, she'd probably lose a good bit of his favor.

The silence between them grew uncomfortable and she nodded, turning to go.

"Why do this for me?" He asked simply. He hadn't talked to her since the day he'd tested his new legs, hadn't even seen her outside the occasional glimpse at odd hours in the mess hall.

She brushed a lock of ebony hair from her porcelain forehead, her stormcloud eyes slid to the floor. "I'm not heartless, Moreau. I, um… I never had a mother, so…"

He tried to think of something to say, but the window of opportunity closed as quickly as it had opened, shuttering the vulnerability, the imperfect humanity, decisively away within the flawless shell. She shook herself slightly, brisk efficient movements which sharply contrasted the uncertain tenderness she'd shown only moments ago, and exited without another word.

Jeff let her go. He didn't see how he had much of a choice.

…..

"Oh, Jeff, I'm so sorry." Chakwas crushed him in a hug, her voice soft and sympathetic at his neck. They were alone in the small medical bay Cerberus had assigned her to.

He closed his eyes, feeling that empty ache pull at him again.

God, he hadn't been hugged in a long time — hadn't let anyone hug him. He'd forgotten how good it felt, how strangely secure.

"Thanks, Doc." He pulled away gently. "I want you to come with me."

She was already nodding, a steely fire in her eyes. "They couldn't stop me from going."

He managed a slight grin. "Good. It should only be a couple days or so. Pack light and we'll leave tomorrow."

She nodded. "Right. And Jeff — if you need to talk…"

"I know. Thanks." He walked out of the medical bay, heading inevitably toward the room he'd avoided for about a week now.

He'd thought he was ready to see her then, and maybe he had been — it could have been much worse — but Wilson's appearance and subsequent actions had obliterated any real chance of… of what? Closure? Healing? He sighed, running a hand over his short hair. _**It doesn't matter.**_

He was getting a second chance with Shepard — he wouldn't have one with his mom.

Joker stopped, found himself standing in front of her door.

Ah, shit, he was already here — why not go in? _**Maybe this time it'll be different.**_

He swiped the access pad before he could second-guess himself.

The doorport hissed open and he stepped in, letting out a breath of relief when he noted Wilson's absence. Wilson wasn't the only thing mission, either. Much of the machinery that had crowded the operating table had been removed. He decided to take that as a good sign.

Joker heard the door shut behind him and resisted the impulse to check over his shoulder.

_**Nobody here but us chickens.**_ He felt an odd (or should it be "familiar"?) sense of déjà vu as he approached her.

"Hey Commander." A lot of the angry scars had dimmed or healed over, but it was still disconcerting to see her familiar face lacerated by those fiery lines. He dropped his gaze to her chest — not out of lust or… it was just comforting to see the rhythmic rise and fall.

"I, uh, don't have much to say." He felt stupid and awkward, felt certain that whoever monitored the Cerberus security cameras was laughing their ass off at him right now.

_**Screw it.**_ He carefully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Look. I don't know if you can hear me or anythin', but I have to go for a bit. I'll be back, I promise. I just…there's something I need to take care of…"

No visible response.

He felt distinctively foolish.

"I… I should go." He nodded uselessly in her direction and turned away.

_**Well, what did you expect?**_ His cynical side sneered. _**She's in a medically-induced coma—she's not about to jump up and give ya a round of hot steaming pity se—**_He shook his head briskly, dispelling that treacherous line of thought.

This wasn't about Shepard. This wasn't about him, even. This was about his mom. He had a responsibility to carry out, a debt he owed that he'd never pay in full, and he had to do his best to make up for it. _Elysium…_

He left Shepard's room, thinking now of flowers and formal wear and eulogies.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is really gonna be a three-part chapter, most likely. As always, please review with critique/suggestions. Never fear! The end is in sight. Thanks for sticking with me, even you lurkers.**


	13. Simple Conversation

Kelly and Chakwas had packed quickly and they were ready to go early the next morning. Miranda had approved his use of the Nightwing and he'd communicated (via a secure signal) with Hastings to confirm their arrival. Everything was going smoothly.

It felt like just another mission.

He prepped the engine, disengaged the docking clamps, and gently engaged the thrusters, the motions mechanical.

Elysium. He remembered when she told him she was moving. Arcturus Station was great for mechanics, engineers, contractors, but not the right place for a retired elderly lady. Elderly… she was sixty-eight. A lot of people lived to triple digits these days…

He swallowed a rising sense of resentment.

"Are you alright?" Kelly sat in the copilot's seat, wide eyes squinted in concern. He glanced at her stiffly.

"I'm just peachy, thanks."

She reached out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Would you like to talk about it?"

_**I don't even want to think about it.**_ "Not really." He gazed intently ahead, focused on the readouts and the view, moving his fingers across the consoles although he'd already locked in coordinates for an FTL jump and there was really nothing he had to do. _**Please go away.**_

"Sometimes it can help to talk about these things." Chambers settled in the chair, every inch of her posture open, relaxed, in that forced _I-mean-you-no-harm_ fashion that every doctor, psychiatrist, and animal trainer around the galaxy seemed to have perfected.

"Look, Chambers—"

"You can call me Kelly." She smiled.

He arched an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch a beat past uncomfortable. "Chambers, you are not my friend. Even if you were, I wouldn't feel comfortable talking about my personal issues with you."

The redhead sighed wearily, dropping her positive façade. "Jeff, I may not be your friend, but I'm a psychiatrist. Kee—"

"Exactly why I don't want to talk with you."

"Keeping your emotions bottled up is unhealthy." She continued as if she hadn't heard him. "Control is fine, but suppression leads to complications and tends to exacerbate social problems."

"What's it gonna take to make you leave me alone?" He abandoned all pretense of activity, turning to glare at her full-on. "I don't like talking about me. Not to you or anyone."

"Why not?" He half-expected her to put on some half-rimmed glasses and take out a clipboard. "Don't you want to connect to people?"

"You've got my psych profile. Reading it will be a lot easier than trying to pry it outta my head." Jeff scratched irritably at his beard. He always hated the Alliance's annual mandatory evals. Stupid stuck-up quacks tried to put their labels on you, file you away in neat little categories, process you. There was no right answer to any of their questions — if they wanted to call you "anti-social" they'd damn well do it.

"Actually, I don't think they're quite accurate." Kelly shrugged when he shot her a surprised glance. "The kinds of basic evaluations that organizations — military, political, so forth — require, are often very superficial, designed to weed out the dangerous or unstable. It might help me to review the findings of others, but I think it would just keep me from forming an unbiased analysis of you."

"And we can't have that, can we." It was unnerving, the way she looked at him. "Um… how about you form that analysis from the passenger section? Hell, you could analyze Chakwas while you're at it." She didn't move, and his palms started to itch. "Go on, shoo."

"I've already completed an analysis of the good doctor." Kelly brushed a length of hair from her forehead, smiling at his shock.

"Jeez you move fast. What'd you do? Pull a gun on her?"

"Actually, she offered as soon as she'd heard that I was interested." Chambers smoothed the front of her uniform, a slight smile curving her lips.

He snorted, shaking his head. "Of course she did." He was briefly surprised to notice that his animosity towards her had vanished, replaced by a grudging good-humor. Huh. At least she wasn't bothering him anymore.

She looked out into space, a quiet wonder on her elfish features.

"Freaky, innit?" He checked the calculations, estimating the arrival time. Maybe an hour or so.

"I was just thinking how beautiful it was." Her voice was soft, reverent.

"Space is a cold, deadly vacuum. Stars are farther away than you can imagine, habitable planets few and far between… it's empty." His shoulders twitched.

She laughed, "A pilot who's afraid of space?"

"I'm not scared! I'm just… aware of the dangers." He was getting irritated again.

"Doesn't it seem the least bit… romantic? I mean, it's a whole new frontier! There are systems and planets that no one's set foot on, sectors of space that hold new species, cultures, maybe even elements." Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her eyes gleamed with earnestness.

He grinned despite himself. Shepard used to talk like that after successful forays to various nowhere planets. _**Like yet another surveyed palladium deposit would cure cancer.**_ "You volunteered for Shepard's unit, didn't you?"

"I requested this assignment form Cerberus, yes." She returned her gaze to the view, her hungry smile still wide.

"You want adventure. You know this isn't _boldly-going-where-no-man-has-gone-before_ stuff, right? We're gonna be in the thick of some unsavory shit, Chambers." She reminded him of that green Private… god, what was his name?

"I want to be a part of something great. We have to do this—for everyone! Once Shepard's back, we'll be able to muster a defense against the Reapers." _**Jenkins, that poor bastard…**_

"You make it sound easy…" Jeff shook his head again, remembering the Council's blind denial. "It won't be that simple."

"So you're a glass-half-empty type?" She teased.

He shrugged. "I'd say the glass is about three-quarters empty and filled with piss in this case, kid." He pointed out to the blackness. "See that? All that black is void. Of all those pretty little bright specks, maybe a third have planets. Of those, only about an eighth—if that—are populated. And I'm just talking Alliance Space, here. The Terminus Systems are even less populated, and beyond that… no one knows.

"I've seen a Reaper—they're huge. I've seen it tear through the Citadel's supposedly elite fleet, heard screams of other pilots over the radio as it plowed through their ships. I've seen the effects of indoctrination, seen the freaky zombie Husk things they make. And they've got geth working for them!

"We've got enough of a challenge getting everyone to unite. I don't even want to think about what comes after." He ran a hand over his short hair, feeling embarrassed to have given a speech.

"If you don't think we can do it, why are you helping?" No mockery. Just honest curiosity.

"I never said we couldn't do it…" Joker grimaced. "I think… with Shepard… some of us will make it. I just think it won't be many of us."

He checked the time again. About forty-five minutes left? It was hard to tell with certain relays. Elysium got a lot of traffic, so some jumps took longer to prevent atomic rending. Messy, that.

"You have a lot of respect for her."

"Yeah." _**Duh.**_ You'd have to be stupid not to respect the Commander.

"Were you two close?"

He eyed her warily. "We were pretty good friends, I guess. Yeah."

"What was she like?"

He sighed, blowing out his cheeks. "You can analyze her when she wakes up, Chambers." Suddenly, he was afraid. What if Shepard would be drastically different? What if Miranda had only agreed to let him go so she'd be able to implant that brain chip?

"I suppose so." Her playful pout was lost on him.

Shit, why did he take Chakwas? She could have at least been trusted to tell him if… no, he was being paranoid. Miranda was… well, not exactly reliable, but she was loyal to the Illusive Man. He'd flat-out told her not to screw with Shepard's brain.

"Are you feeling alright?" Kelly peered at him critically and he forced his hands to unclench.

"Yeah," he rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen tense muscles.

"Can I help you with anything? For your mother's funeral."

He stifled the automatic urge to snap at her. She was alright. Maybe a little too annoying and clingy, but still, she seemed pretty nice. Honest, at least… "No, thanks. The lawyer's got almost everything settled, actually. I only have to… speak… and then go through her belongings."

"Okay, just… Chakwas is really fond of you — I know she'd be more than willing to help if you needed her, and so am I." She stood, placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a better person than you think you are, Jeff." She left him alone, presumably to think about what she'd said.


	14. At Peace

The somber black formal tunic he'd rented was too tight — it constricted his chest, chafed at his neck and he could feel uncomfortable crescents of sweat blooming beneath his arms. Shit, he had no right to complain, he was lucky he'd been able to even find one. Stupid… he should have thought of it before. At least Cerberus uniform pants came in solid black.

He shuffled his feet awkwardly, looking out at the small audience. A handful of withered humans, some full-figured asari, three ancient turians with drooping headfringe… There were no "old folks homes" in this day and age, just "communal retirement villages". She'd had her own cottage near this small town's single grocery and transport hub. _**So she could see the ships coming and going.**_

He shook his head slightly, trying to focus on the task at hand. He looked down to the cramped scribbles he'd gotten down the night before to help him. The small cards seemed to shrink on the surface of the smooth black metal podium.

"Um," he coughed, feeling heat rush to his face. "Thank you all for coming. My mom was — sorry, you don't know me. You should, though. I mean, I should have come here before…"

Jeff took a deep breath, letting the swell of frustration ebb. He started over. "My name is Jeff Moreau. Anne-Marie Moreau is — was my mother. I, uh…" His gaze strayed to the smooth white plasteel coffin, and he felt his throat start to close. A motion at the back of the room caught his eye.

Kelly and Chakwas filed in quietly and sat in the back row of foldable chairs. Both women were dressed in black formalwear — Kelly in a modest dress, Chakwas in an elegant tunic, Alliance commendation ribbons scarlet at her breast. The doctor nodded comfortingly, a weary strength in her eyes.

He straightened and swept his gaze across the gathering. "I'm not the greatest speaker. I'm not the greatest son. All I really have to say — all I can say — is that Anne-Marie Moreau was a great woman. She practically raised me alone, put up with my… issues, and supported my dreams whole-heartedly. She worked hard and never complained."

Joker crumpled the notecards and dropped them in his pants pocket. "I'm glad she was able to live here on Elysium, and to be a part of your community. We didn't talk much, but she always seemed happy, and that's more to your credit than mine. I loved her, and I regret not telling her that as often as I should have, but all that I have I owe to her."

One of the elderly humans coughed. The eyes of the Elysians seemed to soften, an inexplicable understanding in wizened faces. He felt suddenly weak, as if his pathetic speech had drained him of all energy.

"Thank you for coming and paying your respects to my mother." He hesitated. Apparently several years ago, his mom had become interested in siari, the conventional asari religion. A primary tenant of this faith was the idea that spirits, upon death, returned to a greater universal whole. In her will, she had requested that her remains be cremated and released into space. "If you wish to attend the siari Returning ceremony, please contact me after the wake."

He walked stiffly to the back of the room, settling into the chair next to Chakwas. It hadn't been bad, but it wasn't exactly poetry.

"You did well, Jeff," murmured the doctor, briefly placing a comforting hand on his thigh.

"Thanks." He watched as the older Elysians hobbled one-by-one to the simple coffin, placing a hand or a talon on the smooth surface and whispering their own personal messages. He wondered what they were saying. He wondered if she could hear them.

Jeff had never been religious, and neither, he'd thought, had his mother. It wasn't that he was hostile, but faith wasn't a primary figure on Arcturus. Ships moved in and out, people passed through constantly, and there was no real hub of trade or culture. Arcturus was a pit-stop on the way to profits and promises. When he'd left the station for school, it was in pursuit of his dream of becoming a pilot—not in search of some all-encompassing truth.

Alliance military was a strictly secular institution that took an official agnostic stance on religion. If individuals had their faiths, the organization would not intervene. There were nondenominational services in a small not-quite-church at the Academy, but he'd had neither the time nor the inclination to attend them. Religion just… never came into the picture.

He leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, hands shoved into his pockets. He was glad that she had found something that comforted her, he decided. Whether or not there was an afterlife was beyond his ability to confirm or refute.

Kelly stood. Surprised, he watched as she made her way to the coffin, politely waiting for a turian with drooping headfringe to finish. He felt a muted stab of irritation, then decided she meant no harm. His mom probably would have loved the little ginger. She would have liked Chakwas a lot too.

He smiled, then automatically turned to his left, but it was empty. He wanted Shepard here, he realized with a swell of emotion he couldn't quite identify. He wanted her for this moment of personal grief.

_**If they bring her back, will she know what's after all of this?**_ The thought struck him suddenly, and he shivered away the automatic fear. He didn't want to know. But if everything that was _Shepard_ could be reclaimed, didn't that mean that there was _something_, at least?

The wake lasted for another hour, and several kindly Elysians approached Jeff to talk about his mother and to share various anecdotes that only made him realize just how little he really knew about the woman who had given birth to him. Somehow, this was a comfort rather than another burden of guilt.

An asari with the severe bearing of a matriarch and a turian so old that his carapace was growing translucent informed him of their desire to attend the Returning.

….

Space. Vast, black, cold.

His breath rasped overloud in his ears, the weightlessness of his limbs was more reminiscent of helplessness than freedom. Chambers had been right — he'd always had an irrational fear of space. It was mind-bendingly big and undoubtedly hostile. Humans, asari, volus — any organic species was not meant to be out here.

He felt himself turn, Elysium a tapestry curving majestically beneath him. They were barely out of atmosphere, and Joker imagined he could feel the pull of the planet's gravity, sucking him down, down, down…

That was another thing that bothered him about space. Its size defied any attempt at orientation, any notion of direction. Up, down, left, right — it was all the same at once. He shuddered, swallowing the urge to throw up.

It was ironic, as the psychologist had pointed out. A pilot, afraid of space. But flying wasn't about space — it was about freedom, movement, skill. It took concentration and dedication, effort and practice, and above all else, it took a certain special instinct that couldn't be taught or imitated. The Academy had a dizzying dropout rate, and that was no accident.

He shifted his hands about the smooth surface of the urn, afraid for an instant that he might drop it. Of course, that thought was instinctive. If he let go, it would just hang, weightless, in "midair". He hated wearing the damn atmosphere suit. He couldn't feel anything aside from the unpleasantly sticky rubbery material. And there was always that terrifying possibility of a suit rupture…

Jeff mentally shook himself. This was for his mom. He'd be planet-side in a matter of minutes.

Slowly, carefully, he unscrewed the lid and gave the urn a gentle swirl. Spirals of silver ash floated gently upward, caught in a slant of light and shimmering like dust motes. Beautiful. She was beautiful.

He felt his eyes burn, but smiled. He knew that she wanted this. _**Love you, Mom.**_

He waited until the last dove-gray silt had left the urn, until she was a cloud of eternity, floating above Elysium's vastness, and then tugged on the lifeline, following it back into the shuttle. He felt a strange sort of peace, of acceptance, settle his heart. As he stepped into the airlock chamber, he realized that he'd been holding onto the past, onto his guilt and frustration for too long. What happened was unalterable — he was here in the now and he could choose his future.

As he felt the artificial gravity pull down on his shoulders, he decided to let go of what he couldn't change.


	15. On the Road Again

He felt like a voyeur, stepping into a house—a home that wasn't his. The pictures on the walls, the dusty knick-knacks on the shelves—private, personal things he had no right to touch. A large part of him was reluctant to disturb anything, wanted this place to remain forever the way she'd liked it, the way she left it, until dust filled the too-quiet rooms and the house too died. The hard, practical, cynical part of him knew that if he didn't do his job, someone else would—someone who knew her even less than her own son, and who wouldn't recognize that they were erasing the last traces of Anne-Marie Moreau from this existence.

Jeff knew he should be the one to do it.

So he did.

He began the long process of inventory, delivering verdicts to every piece of furniture and article of clothing—sell, donate, dump. He had to work quickly, tried to distance himself, but too often found himself lost in thought, staring at the worn areas of her favorite chairs (she'd always tucked her feet up under her—it was murder on the cushions and sure as hell didn't look comfortable, but it was to her) or when a brief whirl of a dress or blouse sent a fragile whisper of her old perfume in the air. Lilacs.

It got to be such a problem that he actually accepted Chakwas' gentle offer to take over. Stepping back, he had to admit she did a much better job of it; her sharp steely eyes, so precise and keen in the operating room, critically assessed every item for quality, cleanliness, and value. Her brisk efficient movements sent a shudder of envy and shame up his crooked spine, and he decided to check on Kelly upstairs.

She'd begged to help from the start, almost incessantly, until he grudgingly agreed to let her gather the various pictures and decorations around the house for another round of assessment. She'd been working since morning, filling some flimsy cardboard boxes Joker had gotten from the local food market, leaving them neatly in the center of finished rooms once they'd reached bursting point.

Jeff had begun to suspect that his mom had been a bit of a hoarder.

He checked the downstairs rooms—no Kelly, and loaded boxes in every one.

"How're you doin', Chambers?" He called at the foot of the stairs. He gripped the polished wooden railing carefully as he ascended. Super-secret upgrades or no, a tumble down the stairs would likely put him in a wheelchair for a while.

Her reply was muffled, and, he scowled, higher than it should be.

"Say again?" He reached the top of the stairs and cocked his head, straining to pinpoint her location. It wasn't that big of a house—old, two stories, and his mom had been the only one living in it. _It shouldn't be this hard to find her._

"I said, 'Come look at this!'" Kelly stuck her head out of a doorway at the end of the hall, and Jeff barely had time to register the pale dust powdering her reddish hair and the dark smudge on her nose before she disappeared again.

He sighed, irritated, and limped down the hall, turning into the room to see…nothing.

"Kelly?" He moved cautiously into the center of the room. _Where—_

"Up here!" Her voice sounded startlingly close to his head, and he looked up at the ceiling and at the dark square that interrupted it. He could see honey-brown rafters—an attic?

"How did you—?" He jumped back as a rope ladder leapt down from above, its eagerness to unfurl nearly snapping him in the face. He blanched. "Nope. No way."

"Come on, you've got to see what's up here." Chambers laughed, and he glared in vain up through the opening.

"I haven't broken anything in months. I'm not risking that… thing." He eyed the swaying contraption with distrust. "What's up there?"

"It's just a few feet—you can do it! And you'll have to see for yourself." She trailed off teasingly.

He scoffed, opening his mouth to tell her he wasn't the curious type, but found his hand already reaching out to take hold of a disturbingly thin rung. _Dammit._

"Fine," he grumbled, bidding a silent farewell to his hopes of breaking his three-month record. "Please tell me it's One-Eyed Willy's treasure map."

Miraculously, he reached the top without falling, but didn't let his relief keep him from firmly shutting the trapdoor behind him. It'd be just his luck to survive the climb only to trip and fall down the hole… When he turned around, the first thing he noticed was—

"Boxes," he said numbly.

"Lots of boxes," agreed Kelly, nodding sagely.

They knelt in a small clearing of a miniature cardboard field—squat boxes, tall boxes, boxes with strong, proud sides, boxes with warped, weary walls caving in on the memories they held.

"Jesus."

Chambers turned to him, smiling slightly. "I haven't looked through these yet. I figured you should be the one."

"Yeah," he pulled the closest container to him, peering into the shadowed depths. "Thanks." Masses of old parchment paper with childish drawings and clumsy letters, crisply folded school reports, old pre-holo books. A frayed potholder with her maiden name sewn in faded blue silk. These boxes were full of her life, and of his. She must have been saving this stuff since before he was born.

The golden afternoon sun sent a warm shaft of light in through a small window, highlighting dust motes in lazy drifts. Joker lifted an object from the box—a small, smooth white plasteel cylinder—with a disbelieving grin. _She kept these?_

"What's that?"

He didn't answer her, carefully prizing open the lid, and letting the stack of thick cards fall into his palm. They were heavier than he remembered. He stroked the cool surface gently with his thumb.

"These… my mom made them for me, back on Arcturus." He often remembered times of his life in certain colors—his time aboard the Normandy was a clear cold blue, Flight School a wash of pale gray, his childhood a filter of soft warm amber. Comforting.

"She used these to, uh, teach me the alphabet. She said I loved ships, even as a baby, so they were all… ship-themed." A wave of nostalgia engulfed him, and he held the cards closer to his chest, not wanting Chambers to gawk through this window to his childhood.

She seemed to sense his sudden selfishness, to understand, even, and got up with an unoffended smile.

"I'll check on Chakwas," she said, giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze in farewell. He barely noticed, fanning out the cards in his lap.

His mother had illustrated them herself, and each picture was beautifully rendered in rich ink on eggshell cardstock. For the first time he wondered how she'd been able to afford the materials, where she'd gotten them — surely a contractor wasn't permitted to use such rare commodities for personal projects. He stroked the cool smooth surface of the top card, wide thumb passing over graceful lines that never wavered. _**She was a good artist.**_

_A for axle, H for hangar…_ they were out of order. He began to sort them, scanning eagerly for old favorites.

_C for cockpit._ He grinned at the streaky imitation of FTL travel — streams of white and blue radiating from the center of a narrow dash. She'd made it seem so glorious, the holographic flight panels glowing like jewels, elegantly thin support columns separating panes of reinforced glass… like a cozy haven from which to view the galaxy.

_M for medbay._ Soft white light made stars on the rounded glass bottles, pure and wholesome. Neat little capsules of medicine, like pastel hard candies, were huddled in the bottoms of the bottles, along with liquids that glowed a soft blue or green. Joker touched a creased corner, remembering how he'd held the card before every weekly doctor's appointment for the first five years of his life. He'd screw his eyes close and wish and wish and wish that the stark office, the grim nurses and towering doctors would soften and transform into the welcoming, comforting room his mother had drawn. Even after he'd outgrown the cards, he'd still shut his eyes and imagine himself away from cold instruments, glaring light, uncaring voices, and into the gentle idealized medbay.

_E for engine._ A small figure stood in front of two enormous FTL drives, silhouetted by a deep blue light. Legs slightly bowed, hands gripping the railing firmly… He grinned, remembering the brief period in which he'd wanted to be an engineer. That ambition only lasted until his second-grade class had taken a tour around the Arcturus shipyards on Career Day and seen what an engineer's job actually entailed. Lots of grease, lots of minute data-crunching, lots of radiation hazards, and no stars.

His thigh began to ache, and he tore his gaze reluctantly from the cards. He couldn't just sit here. With a sigh, he slid the cards carefully back into their container and, after a moment of hesitation, slid it into his pocket. There was too much here to realistically go through—Miranda would be expecting him back in a few days, and the sentimental value everything up here so clearly had to his mother meant that he couldn't just sell it all. _**I wonder what else she kept.**_

Joker stood, resisting the urge to peer into the multitudes of other boxes, and stretched his shoulder. He'd just have to hand every box down to Kelly and buy a storage unit until he had time to go through everything. _**If…big if…will the Reapers buy antiques?**_

"Chambers!" He yelled down the traphole. "You still down there?"

She chirruped cheerfully back up at him and they set to work.

…

The day had gone better than he'd expected. Chakwas had managed to sell off most of the furniture, and the rest he'd been able to have stowed in a rented storage compartment near the 'port. His meeting with Hastings was quick and relatively painless, considering the rap that estate lawyers had carried for centuries. All the financial details were neatly settled, and there were already a few people interested in buying the house. Joker tapped the case in his pocket, thinking about the absurd ease of the process. Something bothered him, though.

"Jeff," Doctor Chakwas touched his shoulder lightly. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah, I just…" He struggled to identify the sudden restlessness that filled him, failed, and shrugged, grinning it off. "I think we're finished."

"And ahead of schedule, too," remarked Chakwas dryly, shading her eyes and staring out at the sunset. "Are you sure you're ready to leave?"

Joker shifted his weight, looking over his shoulder at the little house his mother had spent the last six years in. The landscape was still pretty natural out here—small spaceports didn't merit industrialization or the commercialized development of tourist traps—and brilliant green grass rolled gently away in hillocks like ocean waves behind the building, undulating peacefully off into the golden horizon. "Yeah. Let's go. Where's Chambers?"

"Kelly went to get us something to eat." Chakwas smirked at his immediate groaning (Kelly liked spices, _lots_ of spices, and always ordered things with weird-ass roots and vegetables that looked like they'd once been in contention for "Ugliest Elcor of the Century" award) , and gestured elegantly towards the hangar. "Shall we adjourn to the ship and prepare for takeoff?"

He nodded once, still grimacing from the prospect of yet another "horizon-expanding" meal. Chambers had been put in charge of their first take-out run, and was astonished that neither Chakwas or Joker had ever had the (dis)pleasure of eating rustic salarian cooking. She had since taken it upon herself to enlighten them, in culinary respects.

They walked together into the shade of the hangar, Chakwas keeping her pace slow so that Joker could keep up easily. Even with the Cerberus augmentations, he couldn't stride as evenly as others, and his legs began to ache after about half an hour of standing. _**Screw walking, time to fly.**_ He felt a pang of anticipation as they reached the entry.

Such a beautiful piece of art, such an absolute joy to pilot. Still a little small, for his tastes, though. He liked the drag, the feel of momentum that you got with bigger ships like the Normandy. The Nightwing, still so strikingly lethal-looking, was poised in the hangar bay, its gangway sealed tighter than a turian politician's—

"I got dinner!" Kelly trotted up to them, plastic foam containers cradled in her arms. To Joker, they looked like live artillery rounds, and he took a step back to avoid the pungent smell that rose from them.

"Let's, uh, get inside first." He turned away from the beaming psychiatrist and mimed gagging to Chakwas behind him, who was hiding her dismay admirably well.

The access code was remarkably short, relative to Cerberus' general procedural paranoia—only eleven digits determined by a standardized date-based algorithm. Fortunately, Jeff had always had a mind for numbers—you needed them as a pilot, never let anyone say a spacejockey didn't have brains—so he punched them in automatically.

The interior was blessedly cool (Elysium was a mite too humid for Joker's tastes) and dark, and he felt himself relax as soon as he'd limped in. The icy blue lighting was like a soft whisper, bathing his face in its purity. He could smell the leather of the seats and the black oil on the door pistons—smelled like ship. Smelled like home, but empty, without the sickly sweet sweat-smell of people.

He sighed, remembering the larger mission. When handling his mother's affairs, he'd been able to focus on his personal failings, and to lose himself in the little tasks of honoring a loved one who's passed and dealing with their earthly possessions. Elysium had been something of a vacation from the imminent pressure and doom. _**See that? That impossible enemy over there? Why don't you go say hi? Don't walk, run, flyboy!**_

No, he shook his head, breathing in and instantly wincing at the intruding stench of the latest spice-drenched excuse for food that Kelly was carrying in. With Shepard, everything would be fine.

"Jeff, there's a light flashing in the cockpit." Chakwas peered up the small stairway.

"I got it." He hauled himself up the (completely unnecessary and likely designed by a sadistic "artistic" bastard of an engineer) stairs and scanned the consoles. Huh. The little blinking light was set near the communications panel. He activated the holo readout, and sagged in the chair. Voice message. _**Well, I **_**wonder**_** who it could be?**_ She'd probably realized she was madly in love with him and was begging him to run away with her. Definitely.

"Message from Miranda, guys," he called behind him, and decided they could likely hear well enough from the passenger section. He activated the audiolog.

"_Moreau, where the hell are you?"_ He grinned—it was impossible not to be amused at her anger. At this point, his gratitude for her lapse in bitchiness had been dulled by memories of the Collector scare, and of the countless instances in which she'd made it abundantly clear that he was nothing more than an experiment and a negotiation asset.

"_The Nightwing was a substantial Cerberus investment, and should never be left unguarded for any period of time." _The smirk slipped off his face. Something in her voice… There was a tremulous note, an edge of fear, or uncertainty. He'd never known Lawson to be anything but the avatar of conviction, even when she'd abandoned those people, she'd never stopped believing it was the right decision. What could shake her? He enhanced the volume.

"_Moreau… The base was attacked. Wilson betrayed us."_ Hatred made her voice flat, but he didn't care how she felt anymore. The base… Shepard. Wilson was — did he… what happened to Shepard? Joker gripped the narrow armrests so tightly that his knuckles cracked, straining for any news of his Commander.

"_He hacked into the security mainframe…" __**I don't care, I don't care—tell me she's okay!**_ "_…turned the mechs on us." __**What about Shepard?**_

"_I had to wake Shepard up early. Jacob, Shepard, and I escaped safely, and are enroute to a different facility. I'll send you the coordinates in an encrypted message. Kelly can give you the cipher."_ She fell quiet.

He sat back numbly. Awake? What did that even mean? Was she… did she remember? Was there any …would she be the Commander he'd known ages ago? He heard Chakwas and Kelly exchanging panicked murmurs from behind him, but he didn't care. He wanted to throttle Miranda for her silence. The white noise rushed like a gentle tide, but it only made him angry. If—

"_I know,"_ Miranda's voice was softer now, hesitant. "_I know that you were—that you and Chakwas were close to her. We'll know more once we've reached the station, but basic preliminary tests indicate that Shepard's… consciousness… has been preserved. She's been asking about you, about her old crew, but I…" _He could picture her, hair falling over her shoulders, curling close to her cheeks in a rare glimpse of humanity. "_I thought you should be the one to talk to her about them."_

This time the transmission cut out.

"Wilson…" Chakwas' voice was filled with iron anger. "If I'd known…"

"I never thought…" Kelly trailed off, eyes wide with the pain of betrayed naiveté. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"He was an ass and now he's dead," said Joker harshly. The bastard had tried to kill them all, tried to kill Shepard for a second time, when the sick, sadistic pig had already spent at least a year nursing her back to life. He didn't care why Wilson decided to betray them—what mattered was that the attempt had failed, that Shepard was alive, and that ex-Alliance Flight Lieutenant Moreau would see his Commander again.

He checked the message terminal for the data package with the coordinates—it was already there, thank god. In a cold read, it was a stream of incomprehensible gibberish—the coding equivalent of static, but Kelly keyed in a decryption cipher and the nonsense resolved into solid numbers. They burned against the orange screen, and Joker felt himself entering the coordinates into the Nightwing's navigational chart automatically.

_**Let's go, go, go, fucking go! We're off to see the Wizard! **_He grinned, too widely, unsure if this surge of energy was elation, fear, anticipation, or impatience. Probably a decent serving of all four. He tuned out of Kelly and Chakwas' conversation behind him, pouring himself into the math, into the dance, into the flight that would bring him back to his life.

_**Commander…we're coming.**_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry about the wait-I have a long list of excuses, but I won't whine about them right now. There will only be one or two more chapters (yes, I am actually going to finish a longer series for once!), so if there is anything that is bothering you or anything that you particularly want to see before Joker and his Commander are reunited, just PM me or comment. Hope you're enjoying it so far! Please read and review so I can improve. :)**


	16. Approach Velocity

"What do you mean, 'she's not here'?" Joker was beginning to think Miranda had just wanted him out of the way.

The man in Cerberus uniform shrugged helplessly. "If you can't understand that, I don't think there's any way to get it through to you."

"I know what—" He ran a hand over his hair in frustration. "Look. I was told to come here. By Miranda Lawson. She said that Shepard was coming."

The man's Omnitool beeped with an incoming message, and with one last "oh well, sucks for you" shake of the head, he walked away.

"Shit!" Joker cursed, scuffing a boot on the damn shiny floor. They'd docked the Nightwing at this newest secret base (how many of these were floating around out there? Miranda must have one for every day of the week) thirty minutes ago, and still no one would give him a straight answer about the shuttle with Jacob, Lawson, and his Commander. They'd been ushered around the station, passed further and further along the command chain from one clueless grunt to the next to this last one, who apparently had nothing better to do than scratch his ass and answer personal IMs all day, and he was sick of it.

It wasn't like there was anything to do here, anyway. You'd think the locals would be glad for the break from routine, but nooooo, nobody wanted to deal with three strangers. Kelly and Chakwas had decided to wait in the docking bay, reasoning that things would sort themselves out in time, that they had been ordered to come to the station, and Miranda would contact them when she could, but Jeff felt… itchy. He couldn't just sit passively while Lawson was out gallivanting amongst the stars with Shepard.

Jealous? Hell yes, he was jealous. He was also hurting.

He leaned against a squeaky clean wall and rubbed his shins, following the curved line of bone with his thumb, stopping at the metal support bands. Damn, his feet were _throbbing_. Walking for a long time, under any circumstances, was a strain, and he could feel the underdeveloped calf muscles quivering in protest. It probably didn't help that he was pissed off and everything he'd tried had failed to illicit anything more than a sympathetic smile.

Joker put his back to the wall and slid slowly down, letting his aching legs stretch out in front of him. Screw anyone who wanted to walk by. He petulantly hoped they'd trip over his legs and fall flat on their faces.

He remembered the hours of physical therapy he'd had to endure regularly after the operation, and began awkwardly massaging his thighs and calves beneath the bracers. Just a little rest, then he'd feel good enough to beat the shit out of that bastard who'd just blown him off. Mm. As long as he was dreaming, he might as well strap on some armor and rescue a scantily clad Shepard from the vile clutches of Admiral Ghota, who'd revealed himself to be a mole in the Alliance, working for the Reapers. There'd be explosions, of course, and speeder chases, and naturally he'd fly her away at the last second. And she'd be sooo grateful…

He grinned, shaking his head. Too many Blasto vids. He couldn't picture Shepard in anything less than her casual "about-ship" uniform (not that he'd never tried), and she'd make a terrible damsel in distress. She'd probably find some way to save herself.

_**She didn't look so tough on that table.**_

Joker felt the smirk slip from his face, remembering how still she'd lain, how utterly defenseless she had been, barely alive. She didn't look…like Shepard. Those freaky scars—did she still have those?

It wouldn't matter, he decided. If she was back, and he fervently hoped she was, he'd never talk to her about that, about what he'd seen. How could he? She wouldn't remember, and he sure as hell didn't want to remind her how she'd…

He blew out his cheeks, knocking his head against the wall.

_**Don't think about it. Just be grateful you have another chance.**_

He heard voices coming up the hall, and he pulled his legs back, folding them to sit crisscrossed. Two (surprise!) Cerberus uniforms, bent over a datapad and squabbling as they walked.

"I'm telling you, Kenneth, the alignment will be off!" The woman was clearly exasperated, pointing emphatically at something on the little screen. "We're two days from—"

"Ach, don' be lazy," the redheaded man had a confident smile, even cocky, as he tugged the datapad from her grasp. "We can compensate for th' power draw by switching th' main bypass t' an auxillary—"

"Don't be stupid. That'd just—" she broke off when she saw the bearded man sitting on the floor. "Um…hi?" Her friend (only friends could argue like that) stopped too, drumming his fingers against his thigh, as if eager to move on, but nodded politely to the pilot.

"Hey." Joker waved brightly; this was the nicest encounter he'd had so far. "Can you spare a credit for a lost and jaded, albeit ruggedly handsome and charming, pilot?"

"No."

"Who are you?" The woman elbowed her companion, and smiled kindly at Jeff. "How can we help you?"

He got to his feet with a pained grunt, and brushed himself off. "Jeff Moreau. Alliance—well, technically 'ex-Alliance'."

"Hey, us too!" She stuck a hand out, beaming. "I'm Gabby Daniels. This greasemonkey," she jerked her head toward the other man, "Is Kenneth Donnelly."

Donnelly, who'd glowered at the mention of the Alliance, grudgingly offered his own hand. They shook.

"Where were you posted?" Joker was curious. He hadn't heard about many Alliance defections to the human supremacist organization, and despite his disdain for oo-rah fraternity-types, it was nice to have something in common with people for once.

"SSV Perugia," proclaimed Donnelly with pride. "We flew in th' Battle f'r th' Citadel."

"That was a sweet ship," Gabby smiled, eyes distant, "Her thrusters always lost sync, though."

_**Engineers.**_ He'd heard of the Perugia, though.

"You? What did you, ah…" Donnelly's eyes flicked down to Joker's legs, up to his canted shoulders, but there was no scorn in them. "Do?"

"Pilot," he grinned, remembering that last strike that had nailed Sovereign—sheer perfection; went right through it and took it down—and the exhilarated victory swoop away from its lifeless hull. "On the Normandy SR1."

The two exchanged astonished stares. Gabby opened her mouth, but Kenneth nudged her shoulder and she stayed silent.

"You are the first people who actually talk in this place." He could tell they had an agenda—an assignment or something that they were en route to, but he needed answers. "Is this station part of the…" what was the name? Lab, lazy…something biblical… _**oh yeah. **_"Lazarus cell?"

Donnelly nodded. "Ah think so—th' higher-ups don' always talk t' us engineers 'bout th' organizational specifics. All ah know is where we work, eat, an' bunk."

Gabby rolled her eyes. "We've heard that a woman named Lawson is in charge, but she hasn't seen fit to grace us with her presence. Not a single visit in two years."

"Well, you've got a bead on her personality already, but she's been busy too." His disappointment reminded his legs that they were hurting, and he winced. "Have you heard whether she'll be coming here soon?"

"Nay, she's got her own wee station for whatever else Cerberus is cooking up." Donnelly nodded with an air of finality. "Welcome aboard, Moreau. D'ye need directions or, ehm…" He trailed off, eyes slipping back to Jeff's leg braces.

Joker straightened, almost but not quite military posture. "Just point me toward the, um, the station supervisor, or whatever."

Gabby rattled off a sequence of "left then right"s and "right then lefts" and threw in a good measure of "then straight for a little while"s, until Joker was certain he'd never make it back to the docking bay, much less to whoever he needed to talk to. _**Fuck it, I'll just wait with the doc and the shrink.**_

"Thanks, Daniels." He smiled and waved the two on, hobbling back along the hallway as soon as they were out of sight.

…

_Ping_

His Omnitool cheerfully announced it had received a message. With an apology to Chakwas, to whom he'd been relaying the tale of the somewhat-helpful ex-Alliance engineers, Joker opened his IM account.

_MLawson: Are you at the station?_

Joker looked at the little words, wondering if he even wanted to respond. Give her a little scare for once. Deciding he'd rather stay on her "save from impending doom instead of abandon to obliviously face destruction" side, he did. As nice as he possibly could.

_JMoreau: Maybe._

*MLawson is typing*

_JMoreau: Where are you?_

*MLawson is typing*

_JMoreau: How do I know you aren't a collector with access to the extranet?_

*MLawson is typing*

_JMoreau: How do I know you're not a salarian who wants my credit chit information?_

*MLawson is typing*

_JMoreau: More importantly, how do I know you're not  
>an obese old man from the Terminus systems<br>trying to seduce me?_

_MLawson: For every reply that isn't y/n, I'm crossing a zero off of your paycheck._

_JMoreau: y/n_

*MLawson is typing*

Joker grinned, wondering whether she was actually throwing a hissy fit, and whether Shepard was watching. Damn, she typed so sloooooooow… Finally, his Omnitool pinged again.

_MLawson: We are en route to the station. Jacob and your friend are with me. Expect us in seventeen standard hours._

Evidently she'd given up trying to deal with him, and was just cutting to the point. Fine with him, but… seventeen hours? They should have been here waiting for Joker and Chakwas…and Kelly.

_JMoreau: What's taking so long? _

_MLawson: We had to stop along the way. Met a friend of yours. Will brief you later._

_MLawson: I've contacted your supervisor. Meet w/him about reassignment._

_**Reassignment?**_ What the fuck? She was just trying to…to what? Why bring him on if he wasn't going to be in contact with Shepard? Anger outweighed his brief attempt to reason this out.

*JMoreau is typing*

_MLawson: Not what you think_

_MLawson: Will be with her_

He considered this for a moment. He hated IMing—so much was open to misinterpretation. Well, if she lied to him, he could certainly find some revenge more potent than a few four-letter words. He deleted the things he'd already written, a hard sort of resignation giving him strength.

_JMoreau: Fine. You better be on the up-and-up._

*MLawson has gone offline*

Joker sighed. He'd better go see Supervisor No-Name, wherever the hell he was. Chakwas looked at him expectantly.

"So, did the engineer really have a Scottish accent, or are you just trying to be funny?" asked Kelly, hoping he'd continue the story.

"Both." He stood and stretched, wishing he had his old crutches. "I gotta go guys, sorry."

"We'll just be here, then," said Chakwas dryly. "Talking about you."

Kelly giggled, a sound so terrifying that he almost managed to jog out of the docking bay.

…

Well, what do you know; the asshole who'd blown him off was actually in charge of the station. Obviously he met the "do not question orders" qualification for a management position in Cerberus hierarchy. Joker wondered if there were any other qualifications. "Get a swanky office" was evidently a perk of the job—this place was bigger than his apartment had been, and there were a number of comfortable-looking stuffed leather chairs, of the "probably makes flatulent noises when you so much as blink at 'em" variety, scattered at random spots around the room.

"Have a seat." The man gestured vaguely about him, smiling in what he probably thought was a confident and professional manner.

_**Corporate tool.**_ Joker had been led on a rambling tour of the station's basic layout (what was it with these guys and tours? shit! it's not like any base had survived long enough for him to go everywhere they showed him, anyway), and his legs hurt like hell.

"Thanks." He eyed the closest chair with distrust, and settled down gingerly. Sure enough, there was an awkward noise as the faux leather stretched to accommodate him.

"Miss Lawson informed me that you were, ah, being moved to our division."

"Yep."

"Doctor Chakwas and Doctor Chambers have also been transferred to us."

"Okay." He'd figured as much.

"Ah…" The guy didn't seem to know what else to say.

"So, what is it that you do here?" prompted Joker. _**Damn, was this guy new?**_ He hoped he wouldn't have to hold his hand all the way through orientation.

Jeff's question seemed to trigger whatever competence the man possessed. Unfortunately, it also appeared to boost his sense of power.

"I think it's best I show you." There was that priggish smile again, and the man beckoned Jeff to follow him back out the door.

_**Fantastic.**_

They made their way through the labyrinthine hallways—every hallway looked exactly the same; there were no identifying structures, markings, or other ornamentations to distinguish one from another. Thankfully, the guy didn't attempt to make small talk. He just strode (slowly enough to allow Joker to keep pace, of course) ahead blithely. This may not be Alliance, but here was another good little soldier, blindly following orders. Joker wondered whether he'd heard about the base near Avis.

More walking. Maybe this could actually help him, physically speaking. Build up the calves. He used to swim—there was a wide pool at the Academy and he'd just do laps for hours. It had helped his back, at least, it felt straighter. Joker exhaled heavily. Maybe he should get some free weights? For off hours. It wasn't like he had a hell of a lot to do anyway, and a little workout every now and then would be healthier than looking up extranet videos. Not that the two had to be mutually exclusive.

They turned down a long stretch of hall, and he could see a rectangle of brightness—light from an adjoining chamber, or…no, there was a wide glass window. The angle was weird, but any minute now…

He'd know that shape anywhere. The long, graceful neck, primary and secondary wings that swept sharply back, like a raptor's, tucked in for a dive, or like the fins of a shark, tipping this way and that in the vacuum to glide the sleek body toward its target. His post, thrust outmost at the prow, the eyes of this gorgeous predator, this beautiful weapon.

His hands were on the glass and he didn't even remember crossing the last few feet to the window.

For once in his life, he couldn't say a word.

Mr. Bland was yammering on about her behind him, but Joker already knew everything about her, his baby, his home.

_**Normandy.**_

For a moment, he allowed himself to believe that she was the original, reassembled and polished to a shine, but he began to notice small changes, adaptations. The wings were slung back too far, the stern "rudder" was missing. She was too long. And always, with Cerberus, that ugly orange.

Still, they'd brought her back. They'd brought Shepard back. They'd taken him, Chakwas, those engineer Alliance defectors—the Alliance had abandoned Shepard, forced her legacy into the shadows, driven him and others loyal to her away. Maybe, he thought, maybe it was no bad thing to work for Cerberus.

The man behind him put something soft in his hand. He tore his gaze away from the resurrected ship to look at it. A hat. Black and white like her paintjob (minus the garish orange stripe, thank god).

SR2.

He put it on, tugging the brim down to shade his eyes.

It fit perfectly.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay, that was the penultimate chapter. I'm not really happy with it, so I might tweak it later if I can figure out what I could do to make it better, but... I've got two endings in mind. Would you want one serious, or would you like to see an alternate, sappier one as well? Red or green? ;)  
>As always, please r&amp;r!<strong>


	17. Full Tilt

That unbelievable bitch. Joker limped as fast as he could, heart pounding from more than the exercise. He'd known she had a plan for him, some little scheme to twist Shepard's mind. Well, he wouldn't do…whatever the hell she wanted him to do.

Their shuttle had landed unannounced, and on the other side of the station. Lawson had messaged Joker, Chakwas, and Kelly to meet her in the secondary hangar for a briefing, which actually turned out to be a little seminar on how to represent Cerberus to Shepard. _Smile a lot! Don't bring up thresher maws! Mention the excellent dental benefits!_ Screw that. The Commander had a mind of her own—she had the right to know all the facts, and her friends shouldn't be willing puppets for whatever a-hole that was in a mood to pull strings.

He supposed he should've just stayed there, like Chakwas, smiling blankly and nodding—giving a polite façade for little miss Bossy Britches, but he simply wasn't that patient. Plus, he'd just figured out why they'd given him the Nightwing, and that pissed him off too. They must have known he couldn't pass up the Normandy's sister. Not a chance. In fact, he'd stow away if he had to. They could keep that dark, sleek, powerful, responsive…shit, he'd still miss it. But Shepard and the SR2? No freaking way he'd miss out on that.

And Shepard! She hadn't even been there! Taylor at least had the decency to look embarrassed when he told them she'd been sent to talk with the big kahuna as soon as she'd stepped foot off the shuttle.

Of course Shepard had been directed toward the comm room. Of course she would be expected to bow and scrape and thank His Mighty Illusiveness for bringing her back. Joker's lip curled. If Senna Shepard still existed in that body, he knew TIM wouldn't be getting a 'thank you' any time soon. She was generally a sweet, diplomatic sort of person (while being insanely badass in a firefight, of course), but not, not, _not!_ with Cerberus.

Was it…three curvy hallways, two straight, two wide, and one narrow…shit, he was lost again.

Joker took a deep breath, trying to orient himself.

What this place needed was a nice, helpful sign with a bigass orange dot that screamed 'YOU ARE HERE!' Okay, this patch of unremarkable wall seemed familiar, and this door looked about right…

He gave up trying to reason his way through this monotonous maze, and just went with his gut. After cutting through a small maintenance hallway and walking through a couple small chambers, he found a door that sent a chill down his spine. Hoping that meant he'd found the briefing room and not that he'd stumbled upon an experimental biological weapon, he opened it.

He groaned as the thing hissed open, revealing a long and narrow hall. Well, he'd already gotten himself hopelessly lost—what's the point in backtracking now? He started limping forward.

The passage sloped downward, gradually enough so that he didn't have to worry about jarring his legs when he stepped, and steeply enough so that he could move quickly. This was more like it. Going back might be irritating, though.

It was poorly lit—unusual for a Cerberus facility. Every marginally functional one that Joker had ever been to or seen vicariously through Shepard's helmet feed was always garishly lit up with an abundance of fluorescent lights, or some kind of weird eezo compound (Radioactive? Maybe. They didn't seem to have much concern for the welfare of workers, what with half of them becoming husks, creepers, or Collector fodder).

He heard a man's voice. There was nothing overtly sinister about it, but there was an undertone of…confidence, he decided. Ironclad confidence in its own authority. Was this…? The room ahead came into view, and he ducked behind the curved wall.

Of course Cerberus had a holographic communications interface. What better way to flaunt one's wealth than to transmit a freaking _environment_ while you discussed the local sports team? Ho-ly shit. If this was their main terminal, that had to be the Illusive Man, and Shepard…

Jeff felt his palms start to sweat. She was right there. Feet—feet!—away. Alive, so very real. He risked a peek around the wall, and felt his heart clench at the sight of N7 armor. No helmet—she'd always hated being trapped in the dark confines of those things, and he hadn't blamed her. Her hair—his throat tightened—she'd tied it up in that same tight ponytail she'd had in those years trailing Saren. That careless athletic stance…certain things you could never fake. It was still her. _**They did it.**_ He almost laughed. _**They actually brought her back.**_

His joy faded, though, as he began listening to the conversation. The Illusive Man lounged in front of some colossal star—to be fair, it probably wasn't quite as big as his ego—and barely let her get a word in. His voice was laden with that laconic arrogance, that presumption, that insufferable patronization, that made it clear that he thought he was better than her. Joker clenched his fists. He thought that he owned her. It would have been one thing to hint at obligation, but to take it for granted? After all he had done to her?

She heard it too, he could tell, but whatever anger she had was simmering. A tenseness in her shoulders, a jerky movement of her head…

Her voice was different. Flat. Edged with anger, resentment, hatred. Every response was insolent, but dutiful, as if she'd resigned herself to subordination.

_**Commander…**_ What if Miranda had put some kind of…of neural restraint or something in her? Some damned little chip to keep her from telling this bastard to fuck off? Well, he'd never heard her say anything like that, but…still. Why wasn't she showing more resistance?

"Just remember," the older man sat back in his chair, glowering despite the smugness in his voice. "You've been gone a long time. Things have changed."

"You can keep your list," she spat, a flash of the old strength showing. "I want people I trust—the ones who helped me stop Saren and the geth. Ashley Williams, Garrus Vakarian, Liara T'soni, Wrex Urdnot, Tali'Zorah nar Rayya vas Neema—"

Every name dropped with a deadly precision and a barely contained quaver of…wrath? regret? He couldn't tell, but they fell like stones to the floor, virtually piling about her feet. A collection of friends, companions, and fighters that he too had grown to like and respect…not that he'd ever tell them that. He waited for her to say his name, with something akin to fear and something close to guilt coloring the tremulous expectation. For some strange reason, he wanted to hear that anger, that pride, embracing the syllables that meant _him._

"Chakwas…" she trailed off, the heat in her voice rapidly leaving. "I…"

_**What about me?**_ But she didn't say any more.

The man, between languid drags on his cigarette and dramatic pauses, succinctly outlined the reasons he had for ruling out her old team, glossing over Chakwas and omitting any hint of Joker.

"Okay, I get it," she said, and she was done.

Nothing.

She didn't care.

He swallowed.

Fine, fine. He didn't either. It was stupid to think…stupid to feel… he wasn't important, after all. No reason to—

_You are to me._ Her own words, quiet, simple, yet drowning out the screams of the Normandy in her death throes. She had come back for him, against all odds, against all reason. She had died for him. He left the Alliance, left everything for the slightest hope of telling her, yes, you are important to me too.

The puppet master was speaking again, but Jeff didn't care, didn't hear. Why would you lie to someone like that? Maybe…no, he wouldn't speculate anymore. God, he was tired of it all, all the running around, all the fear, all the hope…maybe what he really needed was a Suicide Mission.

Jeff leaned against the wall, pushing back his cap. She'd spent two years out—dead or in a coma. What her feelings were now, they probably were then. She had probably just been trying to find the right words, the right approach to get his ass moving, to save the crippled idiot that didn't have enough sense to escape on his own. The insensitive jerk that had taunted her with his self-erected social and emotional barriers. The asshole who'd made her cry at a party neither wanted to attend.

Whatever. He'd been wrong plenty of times, he'd gotten really good at it. It wasn't like he could back out now, knowing what he knew. Just…play it cool. He resettled his new hat. The inside itched—it wasn't as comfortable as his old one.

_**Okay, you can do this.**_ He imagined her face. It hurt. Too big? Maybe he'd started too big. He imagined her eyes, just her eyes, and the way that they'd shine when he'd made her laugh, the light of conviction that led others like a flaming brand into impossible battles, the way they narrowed when she frowned to focus on a distant target in her scope or on an offensive civilian disrupting the Citadel tranquility or on the latest extranet logic puzzle she'd resolve herself to figure out after a mission. The way they moved when she'd slept, slumped over in the copilot's chair after listening to him prattle for hours.

Pain wracked his gut, and he barely resisted doubling up. Why? Why did he still love her?

It was no use. He smoothed the front of his Cerberus uniform. If she didn't care, that was fine. He still wouldn't abandon her. He'd promised. Anyway, they had been friends once. Maybe she'd forgive him. He wouldn't hope for more.

She was speaking again.

"You worry about the Collectors, I'll make sure my team's ready."

TIM began instructing her to find some salarian on Omega, but when she'd normally have taken umbrage at his dismissive orders, she just nodded.

"Anything else?" Bored, weary, sullen.

"I've found a pilot I think you might like." _**Oh shit.**_ "I hear he's one of the best. Someone you can trust." Joker could hear the smugness in the man's voice, but he doubted Shepard picked up on it. Great. Now this would be awkward. The holo began to dissolve dramatically, and he hesitated, wondering if he could escape up the shallow slope and into a hallway before she came out and caught him. If he was fast enough—

"I already had the best." Senna's voice was a broken whisper, a bitter chord that pierced him, hit him like a bolt of lightning. Or a draught of ryncol.

_**Commander.**_

Without thinking, he spun away from the hall and limped into the room.

_**There she is, there she is—oh shit, what do I say?**_ His mind scrambled desperately for something poignant, something manly and deep. Something that would wash the hurt and the hate from her voice, the anger and stress from her body.

Too close to turn back. Too far to cover her eyes and shout "guess who?!"

The last glowing threads of the simulator matrices were fading, she'd turn around any minute.

He cleared his throat and summoned a meager excuse for a smile. "Hey Commander."

She turned, face blank with shock, and whatever half-decent line he'd had slipped away, and he blurted out the first thing he could think of.

"Just like old times, huh?"

For a moment, she just stared, and he noticed the small glowing scars on her face, like bright amber constellations in the night sky. Different. But her eyes were just as brown.

"Joker." He shivered at the sound of his name, dropping from her lips with the weight of a galaxy, and at the look of it, as her lips trembled so slightly. Her dark eyes filled with tears, and she'd crushed him to her in a hug before he could so much as nod. Her armor was hard and cold, and the plating around her forearms pinched his skin, but he thought he could feel her heart beat, thought he could feel her slender fingers clutching his shoulders. He wasn't imagining her breath, warm and ragged against his neck, or her hair, soft and feathery against his cheek. She was here, she was so real, so alive…

_**Oh shit.**_

He hesitated a moment, then brought his arms around her and patted her armored back awkwardly, almost pissing his pants when his fingers brushed the heavy pistol locked in the small of her back.

"I thought… they wouldn't answer when I asked about you." She drew back, searching his face as if to confirm that it really was him.

Wow, she thought he'd…? He realized that she'd been grieving for him. She'd thought she'd failed, that her last act had been a useless one. He felt a surge of anger at Miranda, at Taylor. If she'd asked, and they'd let her think…shit. There was such relief in her face, in her smile, that he felt awful for trying to hate her, for even thinking she'd forgotten him.

She was close enough that he could have kissed her.

_**Do it! AUGH! You're right. there. Just go for it!**_

He licked his lips and took a small step back. "Yeah, they can be real assholes." It'd be cheap. She was clearly caught up in the moment. If he took advantage of her now, he'd be a special kind of slime reserved for the…slimiest…stuff. _**Awwwww, no, man. Why pick today to be the honorable guy?**_

Her smile dimmed slightly, and he was kicking himself already. "I just… I'm glad you're here."

"You can count on me…Commander." He tried to tell her with his eyes, tried to let her know how much he really did want…well. Then he realized he'd brought up rank, and bit his tongue viciously. _**Don't fuck this up again. **_"What I mean…I am here. For you."

He couldn't tell in the poor light, but he thought she was blushing.

He remembered something important and grinned, taking a chance and grabbing her hand. She was surprised, but didn't pull away, and that simple revelation made him lightheaded.

"C'mon. There's something you should see."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So. That's it. Thank you so much for all your feedback and advice along the way, you guys have been fantastic and so supportive. I hope you enjoyed "Interim" as much as I liked writing it. I will not be extending this into the rest of the series, but I might have a series of one-shots featuring this pairing. Thanks go to Bioware for creating this amazing universe and these wonderful and unique characters that I have probably done no justice to. Again, you people are awesome, and I appreciate every reviewer, favorite-r, alert-er, and shy observer that helped push me to finish this. Love, monotony.**


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